As the teeth rip through the charred remains of your
musculature, you'll wish, thought against thought, that you could make some
utterance, some sound declaring the pain you're experiencing. But you will be a piece of chicken, incapable
of making any sort of coherent sound.
You will not be able to express even the most basic concepts of the pain
you are experiencing, and, due to your lack of a central nervous system, you
won't even be able to trust the sweet embrace of unconsciousness as the pain bubbles
over the limits of what perception should permit.
When relief does come, it will be brief, as you travel
through the slimy darkness of the esophagus and towards the stomach. The slick, warm between-space of the body
will feel soothing against your unskin as you slide towards nothingness. You'll know, in that between space, that pain
is coming again soon, that you will, ere long, be seared in acid. But you'll feel a sort of relief knowing that
this moment will not be able to be taken from you, and that the moments that
follow, wherein you mingle with other particulate matter in the bowel of a
human named "Joseph Biden," will also, through and through, be yours
forever. If you could speak you'd tell
the other foods not to be afraid. If you
could write, you'd write a book encouraging people to embrace each moment of
their lives without question. It would
sell pretty well - that dude eating you is sort of a big deal in some circles.
Congratulations Finger Licking Chicken!
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