She awoke hugging the bolster. A fuzzy blanket had been draped over her, and her neck was stiff. Too much oolong. Three was outside stoking the fire.
"Just don't talk too loud," he said, "I feel like my head's been pressed in a quesadilla." She was glad to see that she wasn't alone in her misery. She remembered blabbering about pork, the other white meat, with vehemence and blaming Oscar Mayer for the DCDAs' financial woes. She'd bored many people to sleep once she started on those rants.
Popcorn lay everywhere. Snake. Her ire returned, and with it the desire to do some unconventional basting. She packed up camp clumsily.
A young lad from a nearby farm stared at her from a distance. She smiled at him, and he moved in closer.
"I liek choklit mielk," he said.
"Me too," Grimironie answered. "What's your name, son?"
"Ben." He was an adorable little moppet who probably wanted an autograph.
"Is there something that you wanted to ask me?" she asked, reaching for her pen.
"I want chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets! CHICKEN NUGGETS!" he chanted while running through their supplies.
"Flee!" yelled Grimironie. She and Three grabbed their bags and peeled out into the field.
"Chicken nuggets! Chicken nuggets!" the boy screamed after them. The world was going to hell in a bucket of original recipe breasts and thighs. Something was the catalyst, but what? Had PETA resurfaced to rile the continental poultry? Was is the media's fault? She slammed on her brakes to avoid a group of children who had emerged from the rows of corn.
"Chicken nuggets!" they chanted, and waved corn husks woven into double arches. It was unsettling, uncanny, and even a little weird. Normally children wanted fries. It seemed as if it were yet another harbinger of the apocolypse.