Hell's Chicken

When a man feels the world is against him and just can’t seem to make things work, he’ll resort to some of the most desperate measures. That’s just how Jake felt as he carried his guitar up to the old, sandy crossroads at the edge of his hometown. Life had been cruel and he was ready to give his soul for just one break.

After a few minutes of staring out at the empty fields, Jake sat down and started playing a piece on his guitar. The strings twanged as he played his saddest and most sorrowful tune. If he was going to be taken seriously, this was the song to open the deal, and he played with every fiber of his being.

Suddenly, out of thin air, there came a sound like hot, popping grease. Jake stood up and squinted his eyes at the man that stood before him. He was about six foot tall, wore a white suit with a black string tie, had white hair, a white goatee, and very shiny black shoes. Not what Jake had expected the devil to look like at all.

“Well, hey there, son,” said the man. “I see you’re here to make a deal and I just happen to be carrying this here briefcase full of contracts.”

“Are you the devil?” Jake asked, trying to sound bolder than he really was.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “Me, the devil? Haha. No, I’m not, son, but your mighty close. Now how about telling me what’s on your mind.”

“Well, it’s always been a dream of mine to play rock and blues. I want to be on MTV and have my own videos. I don’t have to be the best, just one of the best. I just want my piece of fame.”

The man scratched his chin and looked Jake up and down while he gave his dream some consideration. “Son, I have to tell you, that idea is just plain lame. Why, there are too many guitar players out there right now making noise and doing the same thing you want to do. The world is crawling with them.”

Jake hung his head and put his guitar back in his case. This was his last hope and it looked as if it were going to be a failure as well.

“Now hold on there, son,” said the man. “Don’t go away with your giddy up dragging. I think we can still get you that little taste of fame. What you need is a dream that is in high demand. I have a list right here and if you will just give me a minute to look over it, I’m sure we can make a deal yet.”

The man studied a short, black piece of paper and pointed a finger up in the air. “Ah ha,” he said. Here we have it… Son, I’m going to make you a chicken-frying king. People will know your name all over the world. How’s that sound to you?”

“A chicken-frying king?” Jake asked. “Hmm, I kind of like the sound of that.”

“It’s hardly ever been done before, son, and I know you’ll be the best that ever lived. It’s just a matter of signing this here contract,” said the man holding out a piece of paper.

Jake felt he had nothing to lose and signed away his soul .

“Son, I just know things are going to start happening for you. I just know it.” And just like that, the man disappeared, with the sound of popping grease, leaving Jake all alone on the old crossroads.

Looking down, Jake noticed a small, black cookbook lying at his feet. He picked it up and read the recipes that seemed to be written in blood. Jake just smiled as he began to memorize the tantalizing words that were before him.

As Jake walked back to town, he noticed the front page of the local newspaper blowing up to him. Grabbing it up, he read the headlines: Arkansas National Chicken Fryers Cook-off to be held.

“This is going to be my chance to shine,” He thought.

Jake placed the paper in his guitar case, and headed down to the local train yard to hop a slow moving freight.

As the freight glided along the tracks, Jake imagined the judges placing that crown on his head and the people standing and cheering as he held his winning piece of chicken high in the air. “I’m going to be the sharpest dang thing this world has ever seen,” he said out loud.

Soon the train rumbled into Neckbone, Arkansas, the place of the big event. Jake jumped out of the old boxcar, and made his way to the fairgrounds. He had his competition cut out for him, too. There was trailer after trailer of people claiming to be the best chicken fryers in the world. Jake walked up to the entry stand and signed in.

There were people from all over the world standing on the grounds. That year they even had the largest skillet in the world flown down from Backhair, Tennessee. There were chicken jugglers, fast flippers and deep-frying marvels from the deepest parts of the Universe. Yep, it would be a heated battle, but Jake had a serious arrogance about him and the others could sense it as they watched him heat up his grease.

The competition began early at 8am and two hundred people began to fry as the scent of chicken hung heavy in the air in the little town of Neckbone. It was a fierce battle among the worlds best chicken fryers, but they all dropped like flies compared to the unheard of style of Jake. By the end of the day, it was down to twenty-five and Jake was quickly becoming the local favorite. He could flip, batter, and fry with the skill of an ambidextrous octopus.

“Five minutes to close,” called a voice over the loudspeaker. “Tomorrow will be the finals. It’s down to twenty-five of the best. There will be some chicken fryin’ and butt whippin’ tomorrow, in a fight for the crown, so please come back and join in the excitement.”

That night as Jake slept, he began to toss and turn. He dreamed of the judges coming towards him with the crown as the crowd chanted his name, but suddenly, he found himself suspended over a large fry daddy full of bubbling hot grease. “AAAAHHH!” shouted Jake, sitting up in a cold sweat. “Just a dream,” he told himself. “Just a dream.”

Morning came early, as it always does, and Jake made his way back to the Neckbone Entertainment Building to prepare himself for the days competition.

“Good luck,” said another contestant to Jake.

“Luck is for suckers, but skill is a thing possessed by winners,” replied Jake. “Just keep your eyes on me and maybe you’ll learn something today.”

As the competition went on, it grew hotter and hotter inside the building. In fact, it was a record high for Arkansas that day, but for some reason Jake had a tolerance for the heat. Within a few hours, 23 of the contestants had either passed out or quit. It was finally down to Jake and last years champ.

The champ was a man named Bill “The Breast” Baxter, and he owned a chain of chicken joints all around the South. Bill was said to have been trained by Colonel Sanders, himself. He had a knack for seasoning and claimed to have been born to cook chicken. It was rumored that as a baby, instead of a rattle, he played with a drumstick.

Bill “The Breast” Baxter went to work and within four minutes, he presented the judges with what he called, “The Perfect Chicken breast.”

The six judges all took a sample taste and spit their chewed up bites into tiny cups. As they held up their scorecards, the crowd was in awe when they saw an almost perfect score of 59 points.

Jake, however, felt no intimidation; it was time to find out who the best really was. He gave Bill a glare and heated the grease up ten times past the safe frying temperature; the crowd was on the edge of their seats. Jake looked up to the judges and gave them a vain smile. “If you think that was good, well, just hold on to your taste buds.” Jake took out a chicken thigh, rolled it in the seasoning he had prepared, and with a swift flick of the wrist, tossed it into the bubbling hot grease.

A minute and twelve seconds later, Jake pulled the thigh out and several people in the crowd fainted at the awesome work of art that came forth from the grease. It had a smell that hypnotized the crowd, a flavor that just couldn’t be beat, and a crust three times thicker than KFC. The taste was so powerful that the judges had to put on oxygen mask afterwards. Jake was declared the winner right on the spot and Bill “The Breast” Baxter hung his head and slowly walked out of the building as the crowd shouted for Jake.

As Jake stood on the winner’s podium and awaited his crown, he looked into the stands and there at the top sat the man in the white suit. “I did it!” He yelled to the man. “I did it!” The man gave him a big thumbs up and grinned thought his white goatee.

Jake smiled, as last years Ms. Neckbone beauty queen walked towards him with the crown. “This is my moment,” he thought as he took a big bite of his winning chicken thigh. But just as Ms. Neckbone held the crown out, Jake began to choke and fell out onto the dirt floor of the entertainment building. He kicked and gasped violently as the crowd gathered around him. A chicken bone had lodged in his throat. The Neckbone paramedics tried to revive him several times but it was no use and he soon lay lifeless with the thigh still clutched in his hand. And just that quick, the king was gone before he had even been crowned.

Those present that day say that just before he died they heard the sound of popping grease coming from the stands and the evil laughter of someone who would probably wear a white suite and string tie. One thing was for sure, though, the king was dead and his chicken-frying secrets were taken with him.

Out of all the stories that surround Jake and his legendary chicken frying skill, the most eerie one would have to be from local Neckbone attorney, Mr. Tom Tommison, who recently had a near death experience. He claimed that as he lay dead on the hospital-operating table for more than 45 minutes, he dined with Satan himself. When asked to describe his experience to the local newspaper, The Neckbone Chronicle, he said, “You know, one thing about it, it might be an awful place, but they’ve got some good fried chicken down in Hell.”