I just ate some fried chicken. The breasts were juicy, and the buns were soft and warm. Afterwards, the division manager of Popeyes came up to my table and asked me how the meal was.I said I was satisfied, but the meal lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. He apologized profusely, and said he had something to show me that would make up for it.

He lead me to the back of the popeyes, to a room soaked from floor to ceiling in blood. In the center of it was a live horse, chained by all four legs to the structural supports of the warehouse like room. As I watched, employees of the popeyes cut large sections from the horse, which was whinneying and screaming in horror, the remaining sections of its body covered with festering sores and a froth of sweat.

The popeyes employees took the chunks of horseflesh and sliced them into pieces, then they rooted around through the bags of trash strewn around the room to find discarded chicken bones.

They quickly tenderized the meat with sledgehammers and fed it into a machine which formed the horsemeat around the bones, then they breaded and deepfried it.

I asked the division manager why he had led me back to this place, and he pointed at the steed's rump, the diseased bootyhole puckering rythmically with terror, squirting pus with each convulsion. "We're just about to use that section, would you like a crack at it first?"

I quickly unzipped my pants and wasted no time jamming my erect penis into the stallion's defenseless bootyhole. With each thrust, I donkey punched the horse in the back of the head, making it clench its ass even tighter. I came just as the horse died. I was delighted. Popeyes definitely went the extra mile to make me a satisfied customer.