Prince's Hot Chicken: Say It Don't Spray It

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On Friday evening, my man and a couple of his buddies got hot chicken at Prince's (there was an out-of-town friend in the equation). I offered my East Side home as a staging ground for their meal--Prince's isn't exactly tops when it comes to ambiance, especially after you've spent over half-an-hour waiting for your chicken.

The next morning I woke up and noticed a strange red substance covering the floor under my table. Mr. Peepers?

I don't know if it's the heat--or just the hysteria caused by so much delicious grease--but somehow Prince's hot chicken has the power to turn grown men into human feed spreaders.

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