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Spine-tingling adventures of a hapless breakfast sandwich
The headwaiter took Jonah and his three sisters to a table in the back of the bistro. A large man was seated there with his back to the wall, his torso squeezed partway behind the table as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go.
They acknowledged each other without speaking, and the man nodded to the waiter. “That’ll be all for now, Marcel.”
The white-clad server gently placed a small cup of maple syrup on the table and bowed obsequiously as he shuffled backwards into the kitchen, his shiny silver tray tucked under his arm.
The man against the wall squeezed his ample belly further behind the table as he surveyed the room. It was a quiet time of the day, late for lunch and early for dinner. Only one other couple was in the small French restaurant. They appeared to be harmless tourists with cameras and fanny packs enjoying a bottle of red table wine with cheeses and bread. They were lost in their guidebook, oblivious.
Jonah whispered to Madge, “You’re closest. He’ll pick you first.”
“I don’t want to be first,” she said, her voice breaking.
After scanning the room again, the man reached over and pulled the wooden stake from Madge’s heart, set it aside, and grabbed her with his pudgy fingers.
He dipped her in the syrup, and she dribbled across the table into his mouth.
“Ungh,” Madge gasped as his teeth tore into her, leaving a crescent-shaped gap. He was missing a canine, so a piece of ham dragged out of her chest and dangled from the side of his mouth like a pink medallion. He nonchalantly slurped it in and ground it up with his molars as he unceremoniously tossed the rest of Madge back onto the melamine plate with her three horrified siblings.
His mouth was enormous, Madge was almost half gone. She lay on the plate with melted cheese and house special sauce oozing out of the open wound, dissolving the powdered sugar nearby. His mustache, shaped like a broom, had swept tiny bits of Madge’s toasted egg coating from her skin and they stuck there between the hairs as if they were taunting the three leftover siblings with a macabre warning.
When he finished Madge, the gluttonous man wiped his face with the back of his hand and poked the wooden stake into his mouth between his teeth, picking out fragments of Madge’s viscera like they were shrapnel.
Sandwiches are made to be eaten, they all knew that. But it’s never easy.
Before another sibling could be selected, they noticed movement outside. A tall gentleman in a trenchcoat walking a sleek German shepherd lingered outside the window, peering in at them through the meticulously stenciled letters that read: ortsiB etiteP aL.
“Look at the size of those mandibles,” Eileen exclaimed. “They could mince us all in seconds. “Faster than that mongo ate Madge.”
“Do they allow dogs in here?” asked Delilah as she feverishly looked around the room. “He looks hungry.”
“They’re always hungry,” Jonah lamented, “and we’re so savory.”
Breakfast sandwiches are terrified of dogs, especially the large breeds with big mouths and strong jaws. The little yappy ones are rarely threatening, they just sniff and snort and at most, they lick a little egg juice from one’s outer crust.
But the worst possible death, the greatest fear of any sandwich, is being swallowed whole by a gigantic dog. The thought of being tastelessly gulped down the throat into a gullet filled with kibbles, parts of lawn toys, and grass, and then just sitting there slowly dissolving, is unimaginably terrifying.
The bell above the door tinkled and a bald olive-skinned man with a worn canvas satchel walked in. The shepherd was thankfully nowhere in sight.
He spotted the man in the back, quickly scanned the room, and approached the table.
“Move over, I want to watch the door.” The fat man obliged.
After he settled, the dark man leaned over and whispered, “It’s all in the bag. Your half.”
Jonah gasped, “They’re criminals. We’re being eaten by fugitives. This is intolerable — we’re not prison food, we’re a fucking French delicacy! Help!”
“How do I know you’re giving me all my half?” said the first man firmly.
“You trusted me to help you knock over a mob boss, steal everything he owns, and now you’re concerned about trust? Get real, Teddy.”
“Shhhh. Don’t use my real name, you idiot.”
“You’re calling me a fucking idiot, Teddy? Teddy fucking Teddy,” he mocked.
“Okay, okay, shut up. Damn. Jeez, Fritz, let’s not get out of control here. Lighten up. Here, have a piece of my sandwich, it’s delicious.”
“Is it?” He grabbed Eileen in his fist and squeezed. Bread, egg, ham, cheese, and house special sauce squished out from between his fingers like chunky orange marmalade and dribbled onto the white tablecloth. “Take your goddamn money and don’t call me again!” he barked through clenched teeth as he wiped his hand on the table.
“Eileen! Oh my God, he squished her!” Jonah and Delilah cried in unison. “Nooo!”
Breakfast sandwiches come in all types, sizes, and shapes, but this French bistro is known for the most exquisite delicacy of them all. Dipped in milky egg batter and lovingly fried to a golden brown, these tantalizing culinary delights should be respected. They deserve to be eaten and savored by the elite, not squished like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the grimy paws of a child.
The angry man walked away towards the door, glaring at his partner and the bloody aftermath he left on the table.
A bright flash and a deafening crack shocked the room, and the dark-skinned man shuddered. He took a step, wobbled, and collapsed like a bad souffle, a single crimson hole in his forehead.
The tourists at the nearby table swung their guns at the fat man who instantly flipped the table on edge and dropped to his knees behind it.
Jonah, Delilah, the plate, and the wilted sprig of parsley went flying. Glued to the plate by Madge’s melted cheese guts, Jonah, fortunately, landed right-side up with the plate spinning in a pirouette. Delilah however, met a horrible fate bouncing unprotected across the dirty floor.
She was bruised and misshapen, covered with specs of mud, dander, and hair. Irretrievably filthy, she’ll never be eaten. It was a death sentence with no jury or executioner.
She looked at Jonah as his plate rattled to a stop. “It’s over,” she cried, dripping tears of house special sauce. “I’m dirty. I’m garbage. I’ll die dehydrating in a rubbish bin. Aaargh, I only ever wanted to be appreciated.”
One of the worst fates that can befall a sandwich slice is to be dropped onto a dirty floor. The five-second rule is just a comforting culinary myth. Customers never eat anything that’s touched the floor. Dirty food, no matter how friendly it is, goes straight away into the garbage to die a slow death. Soiled napkins, orange rinds, and burnt toast will pile up and smother Delilah while she slowly evaporates to a skeleton.
It’s a horrific way to go, and Delilah was terrified, knowing full well that it was coming.
The window exploded, spraying shards of glass with tiny pieces of meticulously stenciled letters across the room. The two tourists jerked like jello and fell to the floor in a fusillade of bullets.
Outside, the man with the German shepherd held a smoking rifle, intently watching the pair until he was sure they were dead.
“Stay down!” he yelled at the quivering man behind the table who couldn’t move even if he wanted to.
The echoes waned and shards settled and the room was deadly quiet. Blood seeped from wounds and puddled around the dead like marinara sauce. The only sound was Delilah whimpering.
Jonah shivered. He was cold and a Monte Cristo of his stature is a delicacy meant to be served warm. It’s not too late, he told himself. I could be reheated in the microwave. Or the oven, yes, that would be better. There’s still hope. “Someone come get me,” he called to the empty room. “I’m still edible.”
The bell above the door tinkled. The man with the gun and the hound with great mandibles walked in cautiously. The gun was trained on the table with the fugitive, but the four-legged intruder had other ideas. He walked up to Jonah and sniffed.
“No, No, No, No!!” Jonah screamed. “Get away from me, you hairy beast!”
“Bowser, come!” commanded the officer.
Bowser quickly slurped and swallowed Jonah whole, then strutted happily to his master relishing the tart flavor of the house special sauce.