It was that woman that you once bought a big packet of fried chicken from at the shop! She didn't look too bad as she was.
You remember that fateful day as if it was yesterday. You still swear that and the home-brand cola they sold at that fast food outlet was the cause of your piles for that week. Your arse must've been burnt at least three times a day by it. The painful memories flood back.
With that, you've decided what to do next: "I wish Mrs. Blodges turned into a deep fried chicken!". You congratulated yourself on thwe poetic justice of it all.
Doubling over in pain, screaming through gritted teeth, greasing of plucked skin and morphing of limbs to represent something vaguely chicken- like after a while. These things, sadly, never happened, as in a blink reminiscent of that of an old TV show she was instantly replaced by a whole fried chicken. On a plate. In the middle of the sidewalk.
You blink a few times. Maybe you should've specified exactly how you wanted her to transform, to savour the tastes for revenge on here. You wish her back to normal, and she appears - immediately, again - in place, sat on the floor, looking a little bewildered.
You try again. "I wish that Mrs. Blodges, the woman right in front of me, slowly turned into a roast chicken."
She certainly turned into a chicken more slowly - it blinked out a whole two minutes before she appeared again, the same again, on a plate in the middle of the sidewalk. You wonder why on earth the conditions include a plate underneath her.
This is beginning to annoy you quite a bit. You wish silently for her to turn back to normal again, and she appears sat on the floor again, now looking just a bit pissed off, arms folded in front of her. Evidently she's as fed up with this as you are.
You try again, but putting as much effort into the wording as you can muster: "I wish, that Mrs. Blodges, sitting in front of me right now, would very slowly transform, including the inbetween shapes, and the morphing and the slight pain and the screaming out before settling in her final shape, into a deep fried, Kentucky style chick." You let that settle in with a smile - before it hits you. "I mean a chicken! CHICKEN! Stop changing! Nononono! I didn't want that.."
Too late. After you had finished shouting, she had already been transformed into a deep fried, Kentucky- style version of herself in her mid teens. She probably wouldn't have looked bad if her skin wasn't so greasy and smelling deliciously spicy.
By this point you decided you had enough. "Sod it." you mutter to yourself, then go off to find someone else to transform.
Three gherkin- people, a squirrel boy and a busload of seventeen children- shaped peach jellies later, you've had enough of this and go home.
Walking on the way home, you find..