Removing your shades, you reveal a black eye and run your fingers along the scar tissue around your nose.
“Been in the wars, huh? A street fight? I wouldn’t like to see how the other guy looks after the beating you laid down on him, brother. Ha ha ha. Nothing like a whole roast chicken to put you back on your feet. Come on. I’ll show you where we keep ’em.”
He leads you through the kitchen, where several of the ingredients are muttering or squirming. A door leads to a back alley, where bags of refuse are stacked high. At the far end of the alley, there are three dented trashcans, their lids lopsided.
“You get one shot, champ. Take your pick.”
So this is how it goes.