Flaky Crunch
It crunched under my teeth. The rough yet relenting fried chicken breast with smooth sesame seed bun basted in mayo, lettuce, and tomato was given no quarter as it gave under the sheer blunt form trauma of my incisors.
Lacquered yet Cajun, the fried seasonings snd spices of olde, rattled like sabers through my mouth.
The decisive lick of the unending tip of the fried chicken flake was foretold in a prophecy millennia ago and disintegrated into a dust my taste buds could feel appeased with for hours, so long as they HAD that last flake.
Had it they did
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