“This plant has been in the hands of the Fitzpatrick family since it was founded seventy years ago by my father,” Jerry Fitzpatrick solemnly intoned. Gary nodded in the front row of the crowded McNugget Processing Facility #178a amphitheater.
“Also my uncle,” Fitzpatrick blindly rambled on. Gary sighed, rose from his seat, and climbed the five short stairs to the dais where Jerry Fitzpatrick, king of the chicken manufacturing world, was delivering his speech marking the inception of the eighth decade of Fitzpatrick nugget making.
“What was that?” Gary demanded. The members of the crowd who were not automated plucking machines gasped. The automated plucking machines flashed their little red lights in surprise.
“I, uh, I said m-m-m-m-my father and uncle f-f-f-founded this plant seventy years ago,” Fitzpatrick whimpered.
“That’s not what you said. Say it again.”
“I, uh, um, ‘This plant has been in the hands of the Fitzpatrick family since it was founded seventy years ago by my father, also my uncle.'”
Gary calmly reached into the cloud of nonsense floating around Fitzpatrick’s mouth and bludgeoned him to death with his own dangling participle.
The automated plucking machines flashed their little red lights even faster. Gary surveyed the otherwise uninterested crowd. “Well that was pretty fowl,” he said. “Now, I’m taking over this plant. And you best call me Johnny, ’cause my shit is cash.”