On a bright morning in New York not long ago, outside the KFC on Sixth Avenue, pedestrians stopped dead in their tracks. Colonel Sanders---the kindly KFC mascot, the goateed guardian of the secret recipe for finger-lickin’ fried chicken---was hanging upside-down over the sidewalk, screaming. He was being tortured to death by a seven-foot-tall chicken, which hopped about waving large knives and slashing at his torso. Blood spewed onto the sidewalk.