Legend of the 8pc

In my country there is a legend of a beast so evil that we dare not speak its name. He comes in the night, dressed in ivory feathers, and a tangerine beak stained with the blood of the innocent. The white daemon takes our children and steals the souls of our elderly, bringing them to his deep-fried dungeon. He is el Diablo Pollo, a fiendish creature that preys on the hungry and poor. He sends his eight disciples--the wings, the legs, the thighs, and most deadly, the breasts--to clog the heart of our very community. He brings the naive and desperate gifts of potatoes and slaw made of cole, tempting them into a feast of sin. With claws as sharp as razors and a pecker as deadly as a blowout on an eighteen wheeler carrying petrol going 90 miles an hour while approaching a toll both. The eight minions come in pairs, hidden in cleverly disguised family-sized buckets, sneaking into the homes of their hapless victims, waiting until the family gathers around the dinner table before attacking, leaving no witnesses, and only crumbs in their wake. Only one has seen into the black beady eyes of el Diablo Pollo and lived to tell the tale, but he can't tell the tale, for he screamed so much that his tongue fell out and his vocal-cords turned to dust, so really, no-one can tell the tell. But he did write down a warning, "trust not the eight piece, no matter how delicious it may seem, for within the grease lie el Diablo Pollo in wait."