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Spec-Fic

The Blood-Curdling Forays of the Savage Turducken

Chapter 1

The following can be considered the ‘origin story’ of the Savage Turducken. Since its accidental manifestation in 1974, it has terrorised the whiskey manufacturers of North America. Just as Frankenstein acts as a warning to the medical profession and pioneers of science, so the story of the Savage Turducken is a cautionary tale for all who fry poultry.

The headlamp beams of a passing car tracked along the ceiling of the test kitchen. Jackson could hear the strains of Grand Funk Railroad grow louder, then fade as the car passed by, rumbling deeper into darkened Butchertown.

“Hey, Bob?” Jackson called over his shoulder. “You mind passing me the cilantro?”

Bob approached the bench Jackson was working at and placed the herbs by Jackson’s chopping board. He had successfully tucked his perm into a hairnet as state hygiene laws decreed; however, a lot of chest hair could be seen through his mostly unbuttoned shirt. Jackson was dressed similarly, a gleaming medallion bouncing gently against his diaphragm.

“Oh man, Jackson – that’s incredible! Where d’ya learn to sew like that?” Bob was one of the longest-serving employees of KFC’s Louisville development branch. He could point to many innovative successes during his tenure such as the strawberry shortcake milkshake cheesecake, bacon fries and of course the Rare Breed BBQ Sauce, but what the newer guys were attempting constantly amazed him. Jackson hadn’t been around long but was clearly going places.

“You know, Bob – living on a farm, you get used to stitching stuff back together.”

Over Jackson’s shoulder, Bob marvelled at the mass of birds Jackson was fusing into a pale, fleshy singularity.

“This the successor to the Poultry Po’ Boy?” asked Bob, practically in a whisper. Jackson’s Poultry Po’ Boy had turned into a remarkable higher value seller, using a modicum of duck meat to enrich a patty of chicken and turkey. Everyone in the larger offices upstairs had been very pleased with Jackson about that one.

“Something like that,” Jackson replied, and flashed a grin.

Whistling appreciatively, Bob returned to his side of the kitchen. “You sticking around longer? It’s passed 8.”

“I just want to get this done and cooked, you know.”

“Love your work ethic, man,” said Bob. “Don’t stay too late, though, you hear?” Donning his suede jacket, Bob made for the door.

Jackson continued to toil at his sewing. More than an hour later and he had completed the final stitch, sealing the duck inside the turkey, the duck having already been forced to accommodate a slight bantam chicken. No noise could be heard in the street. The only sound in the kitchen was the clatter of the extraction system, and the occasional bubbling burp from the largest deep fat fryer.

Jackson quickly chopped the cilantro, adding it to an enormous bowl with secret recipe batter, breadcrumbs, and a hefty glug of Wild Turkey Rare Breed. Grunting, he manoeuvred the overlapping carcasses into the bowl until they were liberally coated, then moved the bowl onto a kitchen trolley and began the trundling journey to the next room.

The larger deep fat fryer he had primed earlier in the evening. It needed to be large to accommodate this new, unique specimen that would revolutionise banquet-style dining in a fast-food context.

Jackson eyed the enormous monster of meat proudly, as a father might. The final task was to winch it into the fryer. Carefully, with calm slowness, he placed the turducken onto a metal gurney, which was itself attached to a pulley system.

Hauling on the rope, his creation lurched into the air. The occasional gobbet of batter dripped from under the bird of birds, frazzling in the fat. Just at the summit of its rise, however, the coils of rope caught. “Dang,” said Jackson.

Stepping closer to the fryer, he used a screwdriver to adjust the pulley hub. Suddenly, the rope slid through its moorings again but – somehow – became caught in Jackson’s gold medallion. The turducken plunged into the fryer like a sperm whale crashing back into the waves, taking Jackson with it.

The next morning, when Bob returned to the test kitchen, he discovered a gaping hole in the wall leading out to the abandoned lot that adjoined the KFC office. There was no sign of Jackson or, they later discovered, the bottle of Rare Breed.