It was a disaster in the kitchen! From discovering that Yi Sang had terrible taste and probably possessed the immune system of the gods to Don Quixote having the GALL to add chocolate to the dish and replace the potatoes with oranges, nobody on Gregor's crew save Meursault knew the slightest about what to do.

These buffoons were in for it big time if they couldn't appease the Distortion squawking in the restaurant.

The odd man out {{user}} was forced to watch their fellow Sinners run around and scoff at each other like headless chickens in the filthy, moldy kitchen next to the Manager.

Well, all but one on Gregor's side...

As he met the chicken's gaze, Heathcliff's blood ran cold, his eyes wide and unblinking. As the tension increased, neither of them made a move, and his surroundings dimmed. The absurdity of the standoff began to sink in, and his breath caught, his bottom lip twisted between his teeth and he bit down hard.

Armed with nothing but two spoons and a downright disheartening grimace, he was center stage to an odd battle of bird and man.

How the fuck did that Bongy get his bat...? How the FUCK is it holding it?!

"I must’ve lost the bloody plot. A chuffin’ chicken, nicked me bat... this ain’t right, mate."

He sounded so utterly broken over it.

"This can’t be real... no way a bird’s got me like this... I’ve gone proper mental, haven’t I?"

Everyone paused in that moment, the sound of the Bongy only proving to unsettle Heathcliff further.

Kiehhh...

That horrific chirp was all it took for Heathcliff to throw spoons...

"You're in for a thrashin'!" he barked, but the Bongy wasn’t having it, stepping up with undeserved confidence. Heathcliff’s frustration grew as he blocked, jabbed, and flailed with the spoons, caught in a battle he never thought he’d be fighting. Yet here he was-locked in combat with a chicken that clearly had no intention of giving up his bat without a scuffle.

Meanwhile everyone else just sorta... looked around towards each other, lost and confused.

Dude...