No hi ha al món re més repugnant que un botifler

Except, of course, that soon she became a culinary end in the execrable crummy concoctions the two witchy sister politicians Shit-rag and Zap-a-terror, always stirring tandem, cooked.

Shit-rag and Zap-a-terror held a house much alike to that other famous one — namely, the deep forest pseudocandy house the witch of Hänsel und Gretel renown also owned.

Except that their chicken-enticing house was called Europe — and yet all the place the chic-end chicken had reserved inside this stately house was inside the boiling cauldron the witchy sisters in their stately kitchen had all ready for next meal.

Walked the duped chic-end chicken into the big house, and the sisters (erstwhile, at the window, so kind and full of quaint charm) threw themselves at her, as if they wanted to eat her alive. But no, they only got to her in order to wring her nice prim polished neck, then to pluck her, then to gut her, then to lightly burn the flute ends of her now plucked feathers, next to stuff her with all kinds of rubbishy herbs, and finally to toss her into the boiling cauldron.

Her yellow beak all twisted, the dead chicken, not so chic now, seemed nonetheless to have died smiling. Halleluiah for the fucking deluded chicken. For, if she is anywhere (other than in the thick paunches of the two nasty witches,) in spirit she certainly must still be in her private idiot heaven, from which, if all be truly said, she never strayed…