Take no truck with this man's claims. Peter H. Cropes' only lawful claim is to a meager birthright on the narrow, leaf-cluttered trail of an aimless lineage. The trail is cut through the heavy, wild woods in which his forebears have bred, openly, heedlessly, in moonlight, as the animal urge took them, frantic and fearful as the small mammals of the forest, their tiny hearts fluttering out the beats of a short and meaningless existence. To mix Lawry's (which, I admit, will work in a pinch) with Old Bay is to take after the fashion of the city dwellers, when they mix baking soda into their cocaine. To add weight but not substance, in the name of profit, in the face of a quality drug experience. To the best of us, fried chicken is as a drug. We will do what we must to protect it.
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