I am to be executed tomorrow and tonight I’ve been offered the chance of a lifetime. I can eat anything my heart desires!
When my last appeal fell through I went through the five stages of death or loss. I went into denial, and made my way all the way to the top where I am finally at acceptance. I feel good about things now and recognize that God used the Universe to bring me to where I am right now. I deserve death for what I did and more importantly, for what I didn’t do. No, I’m not going to dwell on my crime. It is one I felt I had to commit in order to survive. I have no defense for my actions, no way to pave over the heinous act I perpetrated for so many years.
The end is tomorrow. Tonight, however, is just the beginning. A beginning with a five-coarse meal that I’ll start off with through a shrimp cocktail smothered in cocktail sauce with one of those little forks to lift each morsel to my undeserving mouth. Soup will come next. A soft yet tingling mixture of a New York clam chowder with thick rich creamy and steamy parts of clams and just the right mixture of potatoes and whatever else the good chef deems appropriate for a last meal.
I’ll have steak, thank you very much. A thick medium rare serving of fillet mignon with just the right amount of juices squirting out of the meat when I slice through it with my steak knife. (How could they trust an inmate with such a handy weapon, I’ll never know. Thank God for liberal correction officers and a kind-hearted warden.}
I’ll have a baked potato with cram cheese and butter and just a small portion of both peas and corn.
Let’s not forget the bubbly water in a crystal glass or the Cabernet Sauvignon in a large goblet.
I’ll wear a super large napkin tucked under my chin and over my chest. I plan to savor every bite and would hate to spill any of the rich juices or drink onto my prison clothes.
For desert . . . well, I plan to forego that. Who needs something sugary or sweet on a night like this?
[“Not even cheese cake?” my Muse asks. No, not even cheese cake, I reply.]
Instead, I hope to follow the meal, with a big old cigar, one of the ones that was banned years ago because they were made in Cuba. They’ll serve up the smoke with some Napoleon brandy and I’ll be in Seventh Heaven. Now that my friend will be something to die for!
(I penned this in 10-minutes at my weekly writing get-together called “Just Write” in Collegeville, PA. It stemmed from a “prompt” to write about “the last meal you would have before the world would come to an end.“)