With near-psychotic glee, Chef Chicken brandishes a mug of beer, if that is, in fact, beer, and the fried remains of his brother. (We mean that metaphorically—we have no way of confirming that the dead chicken was the chef's actual brother.)
It's not the lemon-yellow mugstuff. No, it is death itself that works such wonders! The love of death—its nearness, its dearness—courses through the chef like a potent hallucinogen.
See the outrageous gleam in his eye! The dead bird is the most wonderful, farthest out thing he has ever seen! All of creation has culminated in one perfect, little lost life!
The skin so crisp, the flesh so firm, the head and feet so absent! (And have you ever noticed how trees are, like, alive?) This chef should not be permitted to handle knives and other sharp objects.
Which would surely be fine with him. His only need is to be surrounded by death, and then consumed by death. And then, you know, to be consumed by some hungry dude in a fried chicken place.
(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral and the photo.)