I ain't a fag, the bucket of fried chicken says, holding up the Playboy.

I don't care if you fucked every last one the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders and their mommas, you sick fuck. Gitouttamabar. Move.

The waitress saunters over to the door, opens it, and holds it like that, dramatically, allowing the harsh light of the day to invade the space and put on display a million flying dust motes as well as Greasy Dave, the bar's permanent patron.

Reluctantly, the bucket of fried chicken walks out.

An eight-piece family-size bucket of fried chicken is making its way through a park, surrounded by laughing couples, running children, the occasional puking hobo. In the history of the city, in the history of all cities and all hoboes, there has never been one that didn't puke. On cue. They're good like that.

Hey extra tasty crispy somebody shouts from a little ways off.

The bucket tries to look inconspicuous but fails as it is a bucket of fried chicken in a park on Monday before noon. But it is a holiday.

A gang of toughs, consisting of one white, one black, one Chinese, one Puerto Rican representing all Latinos, and one girl with a hair lip, all dressed in loose fitting clothes, bandanas, stolen sneakers, beepers, geri curl, broken cigarettes, acne, fake tattoos, piercings, an occasional std, some dissidence, a healthy disrespect for authority, a secret fascination with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and some chewing tobacco, surround the bucket.

Hey extra tasty crispy whasup homes whasup which you, one of them mentions.

Yeah so you like extra tasty crispy or origibinal recipe motherfucker.

Aw leave me alone says the bucket of fried. Here, take this Playboy.

I ain't never paid for it one of them says.

What, you like, chicken tenders or something?

Yeah, he's a what do you call it, oven roasted.

Shut up, negro.

You shut up, niggero.

Both of y'all shuts up, negroshes.

All of you all shut up, fo' i beat y'all with 'riginal recipe here. Biyotch.

Sensing hostility, the bucket of fried chicken ducks away while they argue.

A greasy ol' bucket of fried chicken is sitting in a taxi.

Where to, yous, says the cabbie. He is smoking a cigar, there are pictures of nekked women pinned to his sun visor, his name, according to the insert on the back seat, is James.

A hundred and eighty-third and Market.

Nope, you goin' to seventy-seventh and Caliope. The cab starts to drive away.

What? Come on, I need to get to one-eight-three and Market.

Fegetaboutit says the cabbie, lighting a second cigar, looking like some kind of fucked-up flaming walrus as he smokes them both. I got a call to pick up a fare at seven-seven and Caliope. I figger kill two birds wit one stone, right?

But that's not where I want to go.

The cab slams on its brakes, pulls over to the side of the road, narrowly misses not hitting a trash can, sending all manner of papers and cigarette butts cascading into the air, beautifully in the November dusk. Now you listen to me you goddamn snot nosed bucket of the Colonel's original recipe. I ain't been driving a cab in this whore of a city for sixty-tree years so you can tell me how to do my job. See? If you want to get out of this cab with all your pieces and no more than one holes in that fuckinbucket of yours, you'll sit there like a nice dinner for four if they get mashed 'tatas and some cole slaw on the side and a biscuit, and get out at seventy-seventh and Caliope. Right? He whips around and drives off, hitting the same trash can, which while he was making his speech has filled up again with papers and butts and just as beautifully they fly into the air again.

Fuck. Says the bucket. Theydriveforawhile.

You know what bucket? I got ESP. The cabbie laughs like he's told this joke almost a billion times. Right now, the meter says you owe me thirteen-fifty. And we got a mile to seventy-seventh and Caliope. And it's 85 cents a mile. So I predict you'll owe me, lets see. Fourteen-thirty-five. The cab stops right on the corner, disturbing a hobo, who pukes and skulks away. Hey whadaya know, I'm the great Kreskin. Pay up, bucket.

The bucket looks at the cabbie for a very long time. The cabbie stares off into the sky over his steering wheel seeing in the emerging stars constellations that only cabbies can see, in the brightest city in the world, through smog. Finally the bucket gets out, steps in hobo puke, gives the cabbie fifteen, stars to walk away.

If I ever see you in my cab again, you stinking fried chicken bucket, you better give me better than, lets see. Four point five two percent tip, the cab driver named James yells, as the hobo skulks back, gets into the cab, and glares at the bucket like its the worst thing a hobo could ever encounter.

A hot and steamy bucket of fried chicken is wishing it had feet so it could get a foot massage because it is fucking tired, man, since not one cab, not a Yellow, Checker, Magnum, Orestes, or even a White will pick him up and take him from seventy-seventh and Caliope to a hundred and eighty-third and Market. But it doesn't even have hands so it doesn't shake when a super model named Ennui says hello as it sits and watches a rerun of Friends on a TV above the receptionist's desk at the Callypigian Modeling Agency.

The models weighs in excess of a hundred pounds, maybe even one-ten, and is eying the bucket like it's been eyed before but never by a woman who is a model in a modeling agency on a Monday night in November.

So what brings you here, the bucket asks, trying to look deep into her eyes and show how much it's interested in her as a person.

She smiles. Ohmigod, did you go to the new Cruise movie opening last week? I swear I saw Courtney Love making out with Christina Ricci at the party afterwards and I haven't done so much coke in my life I mean I'd fuck Elvis for coke but anyway didn't you think it was tragic about John Denver. She smiles again.

Hey be careful there lady the bucket says, edging away.

The receptionist stands up. I'm sorry, but Mrs. Notoriety says she canceled the appointment you had. We'll call you to reschedule next week.

Wait a second, the bucket says, starting to rise. I've been rescheduled eight times already and hey!

The model has taken a large bite out of one thigh after carefully removing the skin first. Do you have any coke? she says.

What's wrong with you! Stop eating me! Hey! Get some security in here lady, willya, it shouts at the receptionist.

The model has one of the legs in her mouth and grease, hot and steaming, is running down her chin. My boyfriend says if I don't get my teeth capped I'll never get the portfolio with Davidson who is ohmigod only the gayest shooter in the whole city and-

Stopit! stop I said the bucket screams as it is devoured by the obese super model. It tries to get out the door.

Sir, if you don't keep your voice down I'll have to call security says the secretary, an ex-model who had to give it up as part of her twelve step program, reaching into the bucket and grabbing up a breast and crunching even some of the bones to get at that weird grayish meaty part back by the ribs.

What is wrong with you people? the bucket of tasty fried chicken screams.

A bucket of some bones and a few discarded smeared napkins is watching some kids skateboarding in front of a bank. Cold and weary, it keeps its comments to itself as one lad repeatedly fails to pull off a fish bone nose grind to a 360 backside grab and Donovan mctwisty, though after a while, three in the morning, the kid can tell the bucket doesn't approve.

Think you could do better, punk? one kid says to the bucket.

The bucket shrugs.

The kid smiles. You're alright, man. Where you from.

The bucket shrugs again.

Cool.

The kid rolls away and does an olly into an indie grab and a rail spin, falling at the last second, scraping his knee. Blood.

Fuck. Hey, you guys wanna go to Dunkin Donuts? The kid says. The others agree. They start to skate away.

Hey man, you comin' or what? One of them says to the bucket.

The bucket shrugs. But then it follows them.