__ It had been a long time since Harland had enjoyed a good piece of fried chicken. After all, being dead for 30 years does not help one satisfy a craving. After a tiring crossover from the afterlife the Colonel was finally sitting down to piece of fine southern chicken. He’d opted for the ‘hot and spicy’ because, although he would never actually admit it to anyone, he’d always thought the original recipe lacked a bit of spice. Harland was a little disappointed by the restaurant’s sterile ambience, the impersonal customer service, and the menu that looked as if it had been stolen from a cheap burger chain, but the chicken itself was simply amazing. Before tucking into the spicy thigh fillet, the colonel was feeling a little worse for wear; the crossover had of course been an intense ordeal but it was the bottle of strong Kentucky moonshine the Colonel has smashed on his deathbed that was causing the worst effects. The chicken had obviously played a vital part in Harland’s recovery, but what he really needed was a good refreshing cola. The Colonel took a sip from the oversized paper cup (he’d upsized the meal. Colonel Harland Sanders was officially dead – what did he have to lose?) As the beverage hit the back of the Colonel’s throat his gag reflex was thrown into a frenzy; the contents of the paper cup were spread across the table. “Pepsi,” the Colonel yelled in disgust. “My face is out the front of over 15,000 stores that exclusively sell fucking Pepsi. What have I done?”