(please forgive seemingly incurable paragraph-spacing errors)

Jayne could just see the clock on the front wall of the office, so it struck him a bit odd when the deputies brought him a steaming plate of fried chicken and fixings at a quarter to eleven in the morning.  The smell was divine, the ambrosial combination of spices, meat, and the sacred art of frying.  There was no shame to be had by the biscuits or greens either.  It was all Jayne could do to avoid drooling down his chin, transported for the briefest moments away from his place queued up for final judgement.  "Ain't it more customary," he asked as the deputy handed him the tray through the wide slot in the door, "for a man's last supper to come at supper time?"

"Well, you see..." Lonnie scratched nervously at the back of his head, "we do it this way, so...um, on account of..."

Stacey gave a short, sharp roll of his eyes.  "It's so you don't shit yourself as bad when you die," he said indurately.  "We're the ones gotta despatch your body, you know.  Bad enough without britches full o' shit."

"You're a delicate little flower, ain't ya," Jayne taunted, smoothly turning so his tray would be out of reach, just in case the nettled deputy decided to snatch it back and spare himself the disagreeable work ahead.  "Too bad I can't ask for seconds," he gave Stacey a wink and sat down on the bed.

"Feiren hunqui," Stacey groused and stalked away.

"You know what else they say happens?" Lonnie asked, the glint in his eye hinting at a fascinating factoid and his utter ignorance of its inappropriateness for his audience.

Jayne reckoned he knew where the mentally prepubescent young man was going and gave Lonnie his most lascivious grin, "You jizz your draw'rs," and sank his teeth into a chicken thigh, tearing the meat off with bestial relish.  It gave Jayne a grin of satisfaction the way Lonnie blushed, giggling like a titmouse as he followed his brother out.  The meat was tasty, Jayne had to admit, especial