The deep fryer pops and sizzles as it cooks the chicken fries. The fryer oil is a dark brown like oil, slightly simmering due to the medium-high heat at which it cooks. Evaporation wafts up revealing the peanut-ty secret that hides within. Small bubbles come and go, every now and again spewing out hot grease upon my hand. My hand rests upon the fryers handle, gripping it only slightly. The chicken fries fry at a decent pace - Enough to have ready in order to satisfy the eternal lust for food in which people who eat at Burger King have.
There is a part of me that wants to stick my hands in the oil - The lava like oil. Why? Why do I feel the need to do that? I know it'll hurt, but I want to see what it's like - Feel what it's like. God, what is wrong with me? I can't stop, and I won't stop; the need to fry these chicken fries fuels me into the afternoon. Think of it like having a sexual deviant in front of you, and you're giving the chance to punish them for their crimes? Would you take the opportunity, or fear they would enjoy it? I do not know what I would choose, but I feel I'm given the choice at the moment.
I only recently came about my name, or at least, a name to ease my stress of not having one - Dayfield. Dayfield is all I remember... And... And I remember a man named Seth. Seth, I... I don't know.
I fry the fries into the afternoon.