Their lifeline, I think, was that in an isolated country centre of 20,000 people, they were serving a captive audience. It's kind of like when you buy a sausage roll on a country train and it costs $9.50 - what are you going to do about it? Grab a cheaper one as you rocket through the next town?
So despite its awfulness, my friends and I would go to this KFC about once a week. What can I say? We were unhealthy nerds that needed a saturated fat fix on game night.
Each week, almost without fail, we'd meet at my house and catalogue how KFC and its dead-eyed denizens had mangled our order. One night they were out of buns. One night they were out of chicken. Most nights they'd just forget your fries or seemingly pile food into a bag at random and send you on your way.
This was such a long-running situation that, eventually, we had devolved into passive aggressive wolverines, rifling through the bag at the counter and checking for problems before leaving the store. I wrote an excessively long letter to head office and experienced a blissful two weeks where they paid attention to service before inevitably slumping back down into Hades.
See, I should point out that my standards for KFC are not super high. I'm not going to complain if the chicken is too dry, the burgers are too oily or if they give me massive heart disease - it's part of the deal. All I want is to point at something on the menu and then eat it.
After a kaleidoscope of complaints, I'd eventually figured out that asking for a refund was a no go, whereas asking for free food in compensation was a winner. I assume that monetary return could be tracked by head office whereas free food could be concealed, but I don't know. All I know is that if I ever asked for my money back they'd throw chicken at my mouth until I left.
So, one night, I order food for my fiance and I, and when I get it, I find her burger is not what I ordered. I gain the attention of the serving child.
"Hi dude. I ordered a Zinger burger and I didn't get it," I said.
"Yeah, we're out of Zinger burgers."
I explained that this could've been pointed out when I ordered a Zinger burger, been charged for a Zinger burger and been handed a bag under the pretence of it containing a Zinger burger, rather than what was, in reality, a bun with two crispy strips on it.
He was unmoved, unable to understand the source of my frustration.
In my mind, expected incompetence had now been reinforced by lies and false advertising, and my soul was seized by a white hot rage that could've incinerated any surrounding chickens into the rock-like, wafer-thin burger patties routinely pumped out by this particular establishment.
I asked for my money back. I was denied.
"I ordered something. You took my money. I didn't get it. You lied and now you're arguing with me about it. Just give me my money back. That's totally fair."
The boy continued to act in all ways like his head was a fax machine that could only spit out the same faded message - "I can't give you your money back, EXPLANATION NOT FOUND" - over and over again. His instruction to deny refunds was clearly not reinforced by any subsequent knowledge.
So I attempted to force his hand by asking for the most ridiculous thing I could think of.
"Look, I'm not leaving until I get my money back. So either give me my money back, or give me all of your chicken," I said.
"What?"
"If you won't give me money, just give me all of the chicken you've got ready back there.," I said, gesturing at the bulging pile of cooked chicken pieces behind him.
"Sure," he said, and started piling the chicken into boxes.
I stood there dumbstruck. I was sure he was going to opt for a refund in the face of my ridiculousness. Nevertheless, I soon walked out with over 30 pieces of chicken. I beat a hasty retreat before the people in line behind me realised what my impotent point-making had cost them.
I called my buddies on the way home, telling them dinner was on me.
I strode in the front door hoisting swelled, oily boxes of fried chicken above my head, bellowing in victory like a viking. I recounted the story with animated glee as I waved my justly-reserved drumstick like a broadsword.
We ended up throwing about half of the chicken away as we couldn't get through it before it spoiled. My victory, however, is immortal.
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