Unbeknownst to the general public, a chicken can’t be stuffed with just anything. Watch out, my friend, or it will stuff you right back. World-renowned T.G.I. Friday’s chef Herve Hervé found that out the hard way.

After a demanding evening of mozzarella mishaps, cola clean-ups and heartbreaking shish kabob fiascos, Hervé was just about ready to throw in his be-striped restaurant towel. “T.G.I. Frick This!” Hervé raged at his manager in the back kitchen. “In my country, I was little less than a saint to the people. My Walnuts and Cheese led to the impregnation of eight government dignitaries. My Seasoned Onion Puree once caused a small village riot that left three children dead and two women armless. And here? I leave my talent with my dignity—at the door. I slave away at the wings of buffalo. I spend hours soaking pork chops—along with my many personal sorrows—in Jack Daniel’s. And I get nothing, not even the pleasure of knowing that my delicious food has worked its spell as a home-wrecker, in return. I’ve had enough. Thank God I’m Fired, jack-ass!” With grace and fury, Hervé turned around, gingerly replaced his chef’s hat with a beret and left the restaurant with the slam of a door. Irony of ironies, it was indeed a Friday, but Hervé was anything but thankful.

Hervé eventually returned to his fourth-floor apartment, but not before he purchased a jug of Carlo Rossi and a Cre-Sandwich at Burger King. A night of heavy drinking and an hour of lonely jug blowing resulted in a more-crunk-than-usual Hervé. “What is happening to me?” he asked nobody in particular. “Bia?” He chuckled bitterly. “Bia. Why you acting like a—” Silence. Hervé was struck by the weight of it. “I came from my native land to sprinkle the Americas with the zings and zests of nutmeg, paprika, bay leaf and turmeric. Instead, I have emerged slightly crunchy and a little more than fiery hot from the deep-fryer that has become my personal hell.” Hervé put on his beret and leather gloves. “I’ll show you happy-hour fish sticks, you insolent bastards! You’ll rue the day.”

Ten minutes past 3 a.m., local authorities were tipped off to a possible break-in at the local T.G.I. Friday’s. They were tired of ruffians trying to loot the place for finger-licking baked potato skins. They were on their way, but Hervé was not aware. He was too busy engaging in the battle of his lifetime. He was too busy stuffing a frozen hen with Brie, Rockford, goat cheese and spinach. He was too busy dousing the hen in Pinot Noir. Too busy laughing: “Those T.G.I. Fool-hardies won’t know what gourmet delicacy hit them come tomorrow morning! Try ordering your chicken fingers now, imbeciles! All you’ll get is a little Grilled Cornish Game Hen Recipe with Ginger alongside your Long Island Iced Tea.” Tragically, Hervé was too busy to notice the chicken-leg that was headed right towards his right temple.

Police found Herve Hervé near the outdoor trash containers, entirely wrapped in lettuce and gagged with a portion of T.G.I. Friday’s famous Glazed Ribs. He appeared to have been tenderized and bludgeoned by a drumstick. Death by poultry. Apparently one hard-hitting hen had had enough of Hervé’s hubris.