On a dark Sunday evening, three Cold War women kidnap the Colonel during his evening stroll, throw him into a dark van, and drive him to a remote location. They strap him to a chair and proceed to make their demands: the recipe for his fried chicken.
Just short of waterboarding, they eerily hover over the Colonel. But oh no, the Colonel isn’t scared. Like any seasoned fast food figurehead, he knows that this situation happens all too often in the seedy underworld of fast food preparation. It has, in fact, happened to him many times before. Possessing this knowledge requires a resignation to your fate. He’s already been dead, ten times over.
He doesn’t tell them – oh no. Instead, the Colonel bravely mocks them, despite the air of intimidation and their clear wanton desire for violence and delicious fried chicken. He tells them his friend chicken is made of overcoats, shoelaces, and hubcaps. A blatant lie!
Or was it?
Holy 1984, Batman!