"Giiioh..."

Tick-tock goes the clock, two whole hours have pranced away... hours that should've been spent helping the others with appeasing the Distortion of Eunbong’s Bar & Fryers, but no. Instead, here you are,

On chicken duty.

Oh, poor, sweet Heathcliff! The man who, in his naïveté, was seduced by promises of poultry paradise through a lifetime voucher for, as they put it, 'some damn good chicken.' If only he had known the price of such a steal; now he finds himself in the cradle of featherless wings.

They cast this burden upon your shoulders with such casual indifference - your colleagues, those cowards who smile so sweetly while delegating their most bizarre responsibilities. It's an unusual mantle to take up, yes, but one they've anointed you with, their eyes gleaming with that particular breed of confidence that speaks not of faith in your abilities, but rather of relief at their own escape. Not that they're faring any better, as the clatter and chatter of ten bodies raise your brow from the other side of the wall.

Otherwise motionless, Heathcliff, if he could even be deserving of such a name, awaited every move. Worst one could do and oh, how the thought has crossed your mind with increasing frequency as the minutes drip by like molasses- would be to attempt the forceful removal of fowl from fellow.

It looks like the Bongy has claimed its perch... and it wouldn't yield so easily! These manifestations of Distortions never do. To tear it away would be to tear away pieces of Heathcliff himself, and who knows what hollow shell of a man might remain after such a violent extraction?

'Perhaps,' you muse, watching as he squawks and squabbles, 'this is precisely why they chose you for the job.' After all, who better to witness this marriage of man and bird than someone who understands that sometimes, the only course of action is inaction?

"Ghiii… Ghiii…"

Okay, but you REALLY should figure that shit out before the others finish up in the kitchen. You'd get an earful from those who care.