CHICKEN FRIED STEAK

Me and my girl used to drive all the way out to Horton on Thursday nights for chicken fried steak. They had the good shit there—it was so big that the sides came on a separate plate, and even then the chicken fried steak itself spilled over the edge of the plate. And it was a big fucking plate, I’m telling you. I don’t exaggerate—you know this, you know that I’m a straight shooter. Size of your head. Nah, that doesn’t do it justice. Size of Eddie’s head. Remember him, from high school? Looked like he was going to topple over. He did, once. We were out in the courtyard between classes and someone shoved him, just rushing to get over to C-Wing, not even malicious, and Eddie dropped like a top that had stopped spinning. Yeah, this chicken fried steak, it was as big as Eddie’s head. Me and my girl, we’d fucking both get one, because they only cost like nine bucks on Thursdays, and the waitress would ask us if we needed a larger table. That’s how much shit they brought you. You don’t believe me, do you? I should have known. Why do I even tell you shit anymore, really? I’d take you there and show you right now but it’s not a Thursday, and even if it was, the place burned down. Think it was insurance fraud. It had to be—they were selling that massive chicken fried steak for so cheap, they had to be losing big money. Guy who owned it, he’s in jail now. No, I don’t know his name. Are you fucking Googling this right now? Okay, well now I’m not going to tell you the name of the place. No, not because I’m making this up—because I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you, dude. I’m tired of proving myself to you. I know what I saw. It was like twice the size of that dude Eddie’s head, the one from high school. Shit, three times as big, maybe.