Applebloom picked up the chicken leg and sank her teeth into the tender flesh. She chewed on the meat greedily, with a remembrance of the previous bite. The succulent, sweet, juicy blood-ken, taste was oh-so-delicious.
Sweetie Belle picked up her chicken leg. Rather than being a typical pony and taking a bite out of it, she rubbed the greasy leg all over her face. Her forehead, her nostrils, ear holes, chin, neck — nowhere was safe from her artistic methods. Finally, she scooped up a puddle of grease and slapped it against her face, giving her that natural beauty that could only come from cosmetic products.
Scootaloo was eating her chicken leg. That's all. Just eating it — the way a chickén should. It was hard to come by a pony that knew the benefits of eating a chicken correctly. First of all, after you get past the sweaty armpit stage and the high cholesterol and heartburn, your diarrhea isn't quite as bloody if you were to eat it incorrectly. Second, it's really, like, really good. But how was a chickén suppose to know that?
Chickéns have an inability to taste chicken. It is the way life goes; there is no way around it. Scootaloo will never even get a whiff of that sweet, delicate aroma. That being said, she tried and she tried.
She rolled it against the roof of her mouth like caviar, spit it out and put it back in, mixed it with Mountain *COPYRIGHTED*, she even asked the manager if they put special spices in their chicken to give it its delicious taste.
Finally, heartbroken and defeated, Scootaloo put her chicken leg back on the table. This was a meal she had been looking forward to for a long time, and it had been ruined all because it has no taste. She was glad her friends were enjoying theirs, even though they weren't chickéns.
Sweetie Belle noticed Scootaloo's sadness. "What's wrong?" she said, dabbing chicken grease under her armpits.
"I can't taste it!" Scootaloo banged her hooves against the table and banged her forehead against the edge in frustration.
Applebloom put her chicken leg down and wiped the blood of the orphans off her face with a hoof. "Maybe yer eatin' it wrong. Perhaps ya gotta slap a twenty on the counter and call a shot?" she said and proceeded to vomit all over the floor then passed out in the bile pile.
Scootaloo propped her head up with a hoof, using the other to play with the straw for her Mountain Shoutin' (whatever that is) in boredom. "No... no... I don't think that'll work."
"Hey, I have an idea!" said Sweetie Bell, using the grease to fix her mane into a perm. "Why don't you stop being a chickén?"
Stop being a chickén? What did the duck does that mean? Scootaloo was ashamed of her culture. Her friends were always making fun of her for being a chickén. This all started when she first walked into the CMC clubhouse and muttered a sentence from the chickén language: El Chipotle puede chuparlo, which translates to, "I am chickén."
Since then, Scootaloo has been afraid of hanging out with her friends. She still did it, of course, but every time there was that constant anxiety of worry. She was worried whether or not they would call her chickén. Since then she has avoided saying she was one of them. In fact, if the topic was ever brought up, she denied any questions that came her way. She didn't want to be a chickén. She didn't want to believe she was a chickén. She isn't a chickén. No. She is definitely, without a doubt, not a chickén.
"I'm not a chickén." Scootaloo frowned.
"Scootaloo, you can't deny this forever! How do you think your mom would feel if she heard you disrespecting your people like that?"
"They're not my people! They never were my people! Why does everyone assume that I'm a chickén?"
"Because you told us!" she said, "That, and you had an episodic day when Diamond Tiara made fun of you for being flightless and you were upset. Now everyone is making a big deal out of how flightless you are!" It was both true and pointless. Being only a filly, her wings have not yet sprouted flight-ready feathers. But she will learn eventually.
So stahp yer fusin'.
"It doesn't matter!" Scootaloo said, getting out of her chair, stepping over the vomit and walking to the door.
"Hey, where do you think you're going?"
"To Chipotle!"
"Why?"
Scootaloo looked at Sweetie Belle. Sweetie Belle looked Scootaloo and understood. As Scootaloo was leaving Popeye's, she began pondering. How was she going to prove to her friends that she isn't a chickén? There had to be some way. Maybe if she... no. It wouldn't work. And then it hit her.
The idea was stuck in her head like napalm jelly the entire walk to Chipotle. It was brilliant, if not inconceivable by the weak minded. She couldn't believe it; she couldn't believe the idea finally came to her — after all these years of torture — the idea finally came to her!
Scootaloo should work at Chipotle.
The restaurant's interior was glad in grease stains from the recent explosion. There had been a fight, and Scootaloo was involved. He couldn't believe it. How could this be? How could his own employee — his favorite manager — fight?
He thought of Scootaloo as his own child. She was the chosen one — the Mighty Chickén. How — how could this have happened? It was preposterous! Velosaourous! Prepostervelosaourous! He didn't know what velosaourous meant, but he assumed was something like a dinosaur -- which is what she had become!
With all the strength and dexterity he could muster, Colonel Sanders dragged himself to the Golden Chicken Leg a foot away from him. He picked it up and looked into his gleaming reflexion. He admired its beauty -- even if the situation didn't call for it, he had to appreciate how well-craft it was. It was his -- or, well, Scootaloo's, to be exact. But he had it! Perhaps he is the one to make everything right? Perhaps Scootaloo is the false prophecy and he is the Mighty Chickén? Perhaps!
No. Again, he loved Scootaloo like his own child. He would adopt her the moment her parents died. He would not assume again that Scootaloo is a "false prophecy". It was unfair of him; unruly; impeccably arrogant. He had to understand why Scootaloo got into a fight.
He stared into his reflexion, hardly noticing the cracks in his blacked-framed glasses. He just wanted it to all be over with — for the fight to end. He had to understand. It was time to learn. With his last breath, he muttered, "Please... help me understand. Help me understand why I shouldn't fire her?"
The room was enveloped in a golden glow.
