<strong>The Kitchen</strong><br/><br/>Woodrow Jenks the “I” “V” was just tucking his mumblies back in his tidy whities under the chef’s apron when he heard the crash. He ran out the lou door without washing his hands or putting out the blunt of a fag he was having a drag off.  He bursting into the kitchen.<br/><br/>Woodrow stood frozen in the spot. Four plates of home made surprise meat lay flipped over, plates broken in pieces and the surprise spread conspicuously on the floor.<br/><br/>The four inches of cigarette ash dropped in disbelief and landed on the steel toe of his safety shoes. The butt swirling around the corner of his quivering lips and an odious trail of smoke rose up toward the ceiling emergency fire sprinkler system.<br/><br/>Just when he was going to blame his assistant Neugene LedBetter, Woodrow caught movement going in the opposite direction of the dinning room.  Two mongrels in collars and not much else were cheeking it around the corner with a container full of the meat ball special he just dished out.<br/><br/>A man could only take so much and Woodrow; soft J like the French “juH” so that Jenks was pronounce juh-inks to give it that rich Paris Chef flavor; Woodrow was reaching for the cleaver before his mind was properly engaged in anything but a blind rage.<br/><br/>“OH I don’t think so!!!” He howled and turned to give chase.<br/><br/>“HEY!! STOP THOSE SLUT!! Stop ‘em. THEY Got MY BALLS!!”