[center][color=922724][h1]Kirk Poirier - New Orleans[/h1][/color]
[@KoL][@TheWindel][@Vesuvius00][@PKMNB0Y][/center]

With an almost preternaturally satisfying crunch, the strong jaws of one auburn haired and musclebound twenty-year old tore into the crisp, perfectly-seasoned breading of a golden-brown drumstick.

Always worth the drive.

God, he missed Fried Chicken. And Gumbo. And everything else involving flour, really. All Winter, from the beginning scrimmages in November up until the NCAA Championships at the end of March, he had kept himself balanced upon the razor's edge with his weight control. Every meal, every workout, every cut planned to the smallest minutiae to get him down to 174 pounds and do so fluently enough to wrestle against the best in the nation that very same afternoon. Fried Foods were a thing of the past. Hydration? Heavily restricted. Booze?

You'd be insane.

His effort, his long months of grueling, grinding effort, of wanting to die every time he stepped into the gym and wanting to kill every time he stepped onto the mat, standing amongst savage men from every other titan of the Midwest, had not been for nothing. He'd grappled his heart out, upsetting his longtime bracket nemesis Joshua Bettendorf (nice guy off the mat, actually) from OSU for a third place finish overall. A 6-5 nailbiter, won off of a last-minute granby roll and subsequent reversal. He wasn't champion. Not yet. But this year had been one of tremendous growth and broken limits. He'd get it next time. He was certain.

And now that the season was over, one newly minted All-American could enjoy himself for real. Willie Mae's was infamous for their fried chicken for damn good reason— everything was authentic, and everything was done to produce a quality experience. Even the service was a warm and friendly Louisiana hospitality.

"'Scuse me, honey."

The Lafayette boy looked up readily to his assigned server, a middle-aged woman with dark skin and a kindly, if a little chatty, demeanor. Her New Orleans accent was different from his slightly "Frencher" Lafayette twang, but many of the customers were coming in from out-of-state on some spring break trip or what-have-you. Only he and Lorena here would catch the subtle differences.

"I hate to do this to ya, but we gotta large party comin' in and..."

She leaned forward conspiratorially, a small snicker on her lips.

"You've got the only open table left in the house."

The wrestler caught on quick, straightening out his dark tank top, and waved her concerns away.

[color=922724]"Yeah, I don't mind sharing none."[/color]

"You sure? They're not all here [i]yet[/i]."

[color=922724]"Naw, it's no trouble."[/color]

This time, it was he that pretended to share a big secret.

[color=922724]"Tellin' the truth, I was getting a li'l lonely all by myself anyway."[/color]

Lorena's lips peeled back into a grand smile, and she started off back towards the front.

"Bless your heart! You go ahead and enjoy the food! Holler if you need anything!"

He watched her go, before taking a sip of his water and shrugging brawny shoulders.

May as well, then. He was sure the newcomers wouldn't bother him badly. Not enough to not be a Good Samaritan.