In a fast food joint downtown, she eyes up all the chicken being fried and grins like a naughty kid. Little pixie she is. Little greedy guts stood there counting the loose change in her purse telling herself she won’t get anything knowing full well she will. She’s got enough for a big portion, too, and even though she tries forcing herself back outside, she can’t seem to move her legs, so she tells the beardy man behind the counter what she wants and one by one slides the coins to him. As she does so, she eyes him with suspicion. He looks like a pervert, she thinks. Taking the coins from her, beardy man puts them in the register then goes to get her food, but she got her eyes narrowed on him good and proper, just in case he be up to no good. Stood clutching her aching belly, she tries not to think about all the dead chickens. It makes her sad. All that cruelty. That suffering. Yet she’s hungry, and it just tastes so good, so what can she do? Stepping onto the sidewalk, she smokes her cigarette and scowls at some punks walking past that eye her up the same way she did to the chickens. Cunts, she hisses. As they swagger past letting their eyes linger on her legs, she blows out a lungful of smoke obscuring her face. One of them whistles at her, and for a second, they hang around as she stands there engulfed by the smoke. When it clears, she gives them the evols and they take the hint but not before cussing her some. Snapping her head in the opposite direction, she takes another hit on her stick and looks up at the sky. Barely visible in the big blue above, she can see the moon, so faint and ethereal as it hovers over the buildings on the other side of the street. Watching it with her mouth open, the quiet music it makes speaks to her in a language no one else can hear. It causes her bite to her lower lip, and as she brings her hand to her neck stroking the flesh beneath her chin, she swallows each word the moon has to give until they tingle and pinch that rumbling belly of hers.