Waiting for my date to arrive, I perused the menu trying, to distract myself from my increasing anxiety. I hadn't been on a date in years. My friends thought it was time and set me up with someone they had met at a party. Apparently, she was perfect, which made how I felt even worse, nothing like meeting someone perfect and finding that she isn't interested in you... I thought about writing a list of things I could talk about to impress her. I wasn't the best looking with my broken nose from a fight I got into back in high school, and well, overall, I just was some quiet, nerdy kid who spent his days hidden in the toilets or library. I started to focus more on the menu. I knew I had to pick something that she would find approving. But I also wanted to play it safe. But I had to impress but not too much. Ugh, this was so difficult. I eventually hit the Pizza list and decided that this might be a good option. It's safe and, if things were going well, we had the option to share food. But what toppings will she like? I could go cheese only as everyone loves a classic cheese pizza but, what if she wanted meat? Or vegetarian? I continued to ponder what pizza to order I noticed right at the bottom of the menu there was a pizza called the 'Gold Pizza'. The choices of toppings were extravagant. Not only could you get the usual cheese, pepperoni, and chicken but, it also included lobster, caviar, truffle and if you could afford it 23-carat, (edible) gold shavings. I pulled out my calculator and started to do the sums on which toppings I could afford. In total, it was looking alright but adding in those gold shavings hiked the price right up.

As I sat there scratching my head, I felt someone beside me. I thought at first it was my date but when I looked up, it was the waiter. "Are you ready to order Sir,?" "Uh, not really, I'm still waiting. Although I do have a question about this Gold Pizza." "What would you like to know?" "Can I choose what toppings to add and not to add?" "Yes, of course, Sir." "Does anyone ever order the 23-carat gold shavings?" The waiter pulled a curious face. "sometimes, if they can afford it." "Are they actually edible?" The waiter stood there even with an even more curious look on his face. "Yes... would you like to talk to someone about this more?" "Uh, yeah, sure. That would be great thank you." The waiter walked away. I knew I wasn't going to order the gold shavings. It was way out of my budget but I figured it would kill some time while I waited for my date to arrive. Plus if we were discussing the gold flakes when we arrived it may show that I have some class or... something. I looked back up and saw someone dressed as a butler walk toward me. "Good evening sir, I heard you were enquiring after the 23-caret gold shavings. on the Gold Pizza." "Yes, I was curious to know if people have ordered this before." "Yes, we, on occasion, have people who like to splurge and order the gold shavings. But not many." "Is it worth it? Like are they actually edible?" "I don't think I am best to answer that question." the Butler said with a look of confusion. "Are you interested in the gold shavings on the pizza Sir?" At that moment, for reasons that, I still have no idea why I decided to try the gold flakes. Why not. This could be the last date I ever go on. Hell, she could have walked in already, taken one look at me and walked straight back out. "Yes, I will take one gold pizza with everything." "everything?" "Yes, everything." "Including the gold shavings Sir?" The Butler said with an eyebrow raised. "Yes, including the gold shavings," I said feeling, a bit insulted that he didn't think I could afford it. Which was true but he didn't need to know that. "Very well Sir. If you could come with me, we need to take payment at the back," he replied, turning to walk away and clearly expecting me to follow. "Why?" The Butler, looked back even more confused than before. "It's a large sum of money. I am sure you can appreciate that with this type of order, discretion is something we feel is... necessary." "Oh yes, of course," As I got up from my seat, I did a mental facepalm. Of course, I should go and pay for this elsewhere. The last thing I needed was my date showing up and watching my card decline in this ridiculous order. As we walked to the back I turned around to check that my date hadn't arrived. Still nothing. I turned back and continued to follow the Butler. I was deep in my thoughts about my date rejecting me before I realised that we had entered the back of the restaurant and was entering, some dark room that had nothing on the wall and just one table and chair in the room.

I suddenly felt my stomach drop. This didn't look like an office. The Butler gestured for me to walk in. I was about to turn around and say I changed my mind but I suddenly felt someone else standing behind me. I turned around and sure enough, there was another person dressed as some sort of Butler. I gave a weary smile and walked into the room. The Butler I met at the table followed me in while the other closed the door behind us. The Butler walked around to the other side of the table I suddenly noticed that I had massive sweat patches under my arms. Great just what I needed. "You were not who we were expecting." "Expecting?" "Yes. We knew that they were sending someone new but we didn't think it would be someone so.... young." "Haha, what can I say..." I laughed awkwardly running my hand through the back of my hair. "Name?" "Julian Rashford" I replied. The Butler raise his eyebrow again. "OK... Using your code name already I see. I guess it's probably better that way. The little we know of each other the easier it is to deny we ever met. "We ever... met?" "Yes. The mission we need you to do Mr Rashford is a dangerous one. If we don't capture the asset in the next 48 hours there will be another war." "Wait, a war! All I wanted to know about the gold shavings on the pizza?!" "Yes. You should have been briefed before you came here. That's how you got the code word." "The code word?" "Yes... The Code word 'Are they actually edible?' A lot of people like to ask questions about that Gold Pizza but no one ever orders it. Through the code word 'Are they actually edible' and then agreeing to purchase the pizza you confirmed your identity to us that you are the man for this mission. My mouth dropped. I had said a codeword that had unlocked some mission that I wasn't meant to be a part of. How did this happen? And what do I do now? Do I tell them the truth? But what if I'm not meant to know any of this what would they do? would they kill me for knowing? But if I don't say anything then I am dead anyway as I have no idea how to be a spy. While my mind was spinning I was suddenly shoved forward by the Butler to the other side of the room. "We don't have much time Mr Rashford. Here is your bag with the items you requested. Also the files with all the information you require." The Butler said as he pushed a brick into the wall which seemed to unlock a secret door. "From this point on you are on your own. There is no support or backup so if this thing goes sideways there is no backup. Good luck Mr Rashford. We are all counting on you to succeed." Suddenly I was pushed through the secret door and it abruptly closed behind me, leaving me in the dark, wondering how the codeword 'Are they actually edible' got me into this.

The sound of employees shuffling around the restaurant was beginning to annoy me. I could feel my patience wearing thin, as if it were the strands of string cheese being slowly pulled away, bit by bit. “The menu, sir.” I glared up at the waiter to match their voice with a face. A face that happened to have freakishly blue eyes and an amazingly bold jawline. “Thank you…” I searched for their name tag. “Wyatt.” “Of course,” they replied. I settled back in my seat to get comfortable as I began to scan the menu. Scallops Crap leg Shrimp (blackened, grilled, or fried) Fish ‘n chips (catfish or cod) Soup of the day (ask server)

“Hello and welcome to the Crab ‘n Cod, sir.” I almost fell out of my seat when I heard the piercing, high pitched voice address me out of nowhere. “Did I startle you? I’m terribly sorry.” I held up my hand. “No, no it’s ok. It wasn’t your fault.” “Alright then. Can I get you started with something to drink?” “Sure. I’ll have a Ginger Ale, please.” She started violently scribbling in her notepad. “Gin…ger a..le. Ok, got it!” “G—good. What might the soup of the day be?” “That would be clam chowder, sir.” “Alright… would it by any chance be possible to get something off-menu?” “I suppose.” I took a deep breath. “Ok, I’d like a crab bisque with blackened crap, as well as fried crab. But with the fried crab, can the crust be pulled off, crushed, and sprinkled in the soup, as well as the bare crab, except for those don’t crush them, just put them in the soup as is?” “…lled off…crushed…and sprinkled in the…soup…” she looked up at me with a hint of concern in her eyes, but when we made eye contact, she went right back to scribbling. “Anything else, sir?” she said, frantically waving her hand in the air as if she had gotten a cramp. “Yeah, I’d also like a side of oyster crac—“ I frustratedly rubbed my eye, knowing something had just flown into it. “Sorry, I meant to say a side of oyster crackers, please.” I winked with my right eye to try and rid it of whatever had flown in before I had another fit. “A—are you sure?” I looked up to see the waitress still standing next my table, her eyes bugging out of her head. “Yes, I’m… sure. Is something wrong, miss?” She winked. “No, nothing at all.” I cocked my head as she walked away. Was she mocking me?

WIP

“Mr. President? Everything alright in here?”

The secret service. It got too quiet in here and they came in. Two of them.

They see me next to the lifeless President and their faces go pale.

I kick the stall door shut and scramble on the ground under the stalls.

“Stop!” One of the men yell.

Just as I reach the last stall, a shot rings out. The bullet doesn’t hit me, but its so close I feel the air movement and the vibration of whatever it impacted.

I find the switch and the secret door slides open and I’m through, sprinting in the darkness.

The two men never yell “Stop!” again or say anything else. They are out to kill me. I hear their steps pounding closer.

Another shot. It slams into the elevator just ahead of me, which opens as I approach.

Inside, the red light making me feel like a target, I take cover to the left of the doors, as another bullet flies in. I push the button about sixteen times in two seconds.

This elevator has the fastest reaction time I’ve ever seen. I swear, it’s like I’m on the Enterprise with the speed of this door. But even that wasn’t fast enough to stop the first man from reaching me.

He steps into the elevator sticking the gun in my face.

“On the ground!” He yells. With my hands instinctively up, I slowly drop to my knees.

The other secret service guy approaches outside the doors, but the first man tells him to go back and secure the President.

The man watches his partner go, gun still on me.

I’ve got my hands behind my head, eyeing the elevator button. I’m wondering if I can reach it.

The elevator doors finally shut.

Now the guy turns to me and says, “Nice job in there.”

“Huh?”

“With the hit,” he says.

My heart sinks. In fact, I’m pretty sure it sinks so low it exited my bowels, which is a really weird thing to say, but that’s how it felt. I shit my heart.

This secret service agent was one of them. He was the inside guy. He was part of this whole assassination attempt that actually succeeded but only accidentally.

“Did that old bastard stab you with your own knife?” He says noticing my wounded shoulder. “I thought you were supposed to be the best.”

“I’m really not,” I say.

“I know they paid you a lot, but since life has afforded me this opportunity to cut a loose end, namely you, I’m afraid you’re not going to get to enjoy it.”

“Wait! Wait!” I stammer, “I won’t say anything about you. You can trust me! I’m very trustworthy! All the other...uh.... hitmen and hitwomen say so.”

“Sorry,” the guy says, but I can tell he’s not.

He prepares to fire a bullet into my face which, I gotta say, is a terrible feeling. I’ve been disliked before, I’ve even been hated before. I once got in a fight at a Burger King with a friend of mine who pushed me through a window (still banned from all Burger Kings everywhere). But usually people get to know before they start to hate me.

For this stranger who I just met to be willing to kill me? It’s just a new level of feeling devalued by a person that I’ve never felt before.

Now I’m about to feel the feeling of a bullet in my face which I have never felt before.

But nope. It wasn’t meant to be.

The Secret Service agent’s walkie talkie thing squawks loudly with the other agent’s voice. He must have turned up the volume because of the loud music in the club. The agent winces.

“Jake, the President is gone!” The other agent says.

“What?!” The Jake says.

“The body! It’s gone! It’s gone!”

Now is the moment to move, I figure. With my hands still behind my head, I slam my right elbow into the elevator button.

As before, the unexpectedly fast elevator zooms downward. The agent, who was not expecting this, loses his balance just enough. I tackle his gun arm.

You should know I’m not entirely useless when it comes to fighting dudes. As you can see, I’m pretty well built and have I mentioned attractive? I used to be a bouncer for some extra cash, and I’d often get into fist fights or wrestling matches with buddies of mine. Just always liked it.

Plus I once fought and ex-police officer President.

But I’m not classically trained in any way. Not like Jake the secret service agent. He quickly pivots and is on top of me. He’s got a death grip on that gun of his, but I’m not letting go, pointing it out of the direction of my face.

The agent uses both his hands to force the gun back into my face, and it’s slowly getting there. I’d like to head butt him like I did the President, but the agent wisely keeps it out of striking distance.

The barrel of the gun is pressing into my cheekbone. I can feel my arms about to tap out. He’s gritting his teeth and staring into my eyes with rage.

This guy is just plain stronger than me. Stronger, more skilled, better equipped.

As soon as I think of him being “better equipped”, I immediately think of a penis joke. That’s when the idea hits me.

And that’s when I hit him.

Straight in the balls.

I pop my right knee up with speed, connecting hard with Agent Jake’s balls. I hit ‘em just right.

It’s the kind of pain that takes a moment to fully manifest. But when it does, your stomach immediately turns, all focus leaves your brain, and all you can do is double over.

And that’s exactly what happens. His face goes white, he loses grip on his gun, and he crumbles into a fetal position, clutching his privates.

I stand up. Agent Jake is good, because, even in his pain, which blinded him momentarily, he’s already reaching for the gun.

So, with everything I’ve got, I kick him in the balls.

And I kick him again. And again. Balls, balls, balls. Balls to the walls. I just keep kicking them.

A lesson you learn pretty quickly when you grow up the way I did: if your outmatched, cheat. Honor is for shmucks.

Once I’m pretty sure Agent Jake is going to be the last of his kin, I stop. My anger, which just came out of nowhere, calms down a bit. I guess getting a gun shoved in your face can make you feel some pretty strong emotions. Who knew?

The elevator stops and I exit. I don’t pick up the gun. I should have, but I didn’t think of it. I just wanted to be gone.

I run down the corridor to the secret entrance back into my favorite Italian restaurant. I’m breathing heavy and I think the blood loss is getting to me.

Reaching the door, I flick the switch. The door slides open and flames spill towards me. I fall back. The heat already feels like it’s boiling my insides.

Ok. So the restaurant is on fire now. Great. I can go that way.

Then a bullet slices the air passed my head, punching into the door frame in front of me. I swivel and see freaking Agent Jake heading towards me. It looks painful for him, stumbling often, but stumbling towards me with that freaking gun.

I dive into the fire.

I figure there’s a higher chance of survival braving a burning building than fighting a crazed secret service agent with a gun and squished balls. I mean, I kicked that guy’s balls into oblivion and he’s still coming after me! What else can I do?

The fire is everywhere, but I do see a path out of the restroom. Sweat is dripping into my eyes and the smoke has already caked my lungs.

I carefully make my way to the door. The sounds of the inferno and crumbling building make my ears useless allies. A flame flickers too close and I jump back. That’s when I spot someone in a stall.

It’s Freddy.

He’s either unconscious or dead, slumped on the ground beside the toilet. My mind races with questions but there’s no time and no one to answer them anyway. I run towards him.

“Freddy! Freddy!” I yell, slapping him pretty good on the face. He stirs slightly so I know he’s not dead.

He’s clearly not going to be able to walk out of here, though. So I carefully walk him and his stupid backpack out of the stall, and then haul him up onto my shoulders like a totally awesome firefighter saving the future love of his life. Only this firefighter is even more badass because he’s got a stab wound on his shoulder.

I trudge along until I hear a roar over the sounds of the destruction. I look behind me and see Agent Jake a little bit on fire. He followed me through, but since he’s....not the man he used to be, he must have stumbled into the fire.

He was beating the flames off his sleeve, but the that was the least of his problems. His face. It was on fire.

But his raging eyes were still fixed on me. Also fixed on me was his gun.

I told myself to double-time it, but I couldn’t go any faster, not with the weight of Freddy and what my body had already been through. The agent is shooting wildly at me as I push through the door into the restaurant hallway.

I know he’s gaining on me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Pretty soon he’ll be so close there’s no way he’ll miss.

I make it through the burning hallway into the main dining area before the agent falls through the door. Yelling and probably dying, but not quitting.

My little Italian restaurant go-to looks like it’s been transported to hell. Bright yellow/orange fires seem to be everywhere, dancing and consuming tables, chairs, the bar area. The burning chandelier suddenly snaps and drops like a fireball from the sky. It hits with a spectacular burst, sparks flying in every direction.

I fall back and the agent is there. He’s screaming, either because he wants to kill me so badly or because the skin on his face has melted off.

He may not live long, but he’s going to live long enough to kill me. He’s 10 feet away moving closer every second.

He fires his gun one last time.

I know I’m done for, and maybe it’s because I can’t handle seeing it coming, I spin around, putting my back to him.

The bullet hits Freddys backpack. I feel the impact. Now I’m thinking my cowardice has cost my friend his life. If I hadn’t turned...

But then I see Agent Jake crumble to the floor, lifeless.

Confused but alive, I hike up Freddy and rush towards the exit. Again, death begins to feel right on top of me as the fire has pretty much consumed every untouched space. The ceiling begins to come down around me as I dash for window. It’s going to hurt, but probably safer and faster than touching a door.

Freddy and I crash through the large window, smoke and flames escaping with us. It’s once we are outside that I realize we are on fire. I quickly rolled around on the cool concrete, then roll Freddy.Then we lie there, a smoking mess.

Freddy moans. He’s not dead! I can’t believe it, so I have a look at his backpack. Sure enough there’s a bullet hole in it, right where Freddy had packed his impenetrum. The bullet must have ricocheted off the stuff and hit melting Agent Jake. Freddys invention was strong enough to deflect bullets. I told ya, the guys not half bad.

People are all around us, but it’s like they are all on mute. I can’t hear their words. I can’t take them in, my brain has no room.

After coughing up about a gallon of smoke, I finally take the sweetest deep breathe of my life. I lay flat on the ground. The stars look real beautiful.

The paramedics find us and hall us off.

And that was the end of it.

————————————-

So there you have it. I did kill the President, but not on purpose. Technically Freddy killed him with his candy. Same with the secret service agent; it was Freddy’s brick of unbreakable substance that ultimately ended the guy. Freddy’s the accidental killer. I’m the accidental killing courier.

Of course I didn’t tell anyone about what happened. Are you kidding me? No way! I wasn’t a part of this assassination plot anyway. I didn’t know anything. I was just at the wrong place and ordered the wrong thing at the wrong time.

It was all over the news even while Freddy and I were still recovery in the hospital, our beds next to each other. The President is missing was the story. Not dead, just missing. He had gone to meet some donors to his campaign with a limited detail and more information would be coming shortly they hoped. I wondered when the real news would break.

When we were alone, I told Freddy everything that happened. He had lots of questions, most of which I had no answers to.

“How people do you think were involved in this plot?” he asked, eating some hospital jello.

“No idea. At least two,” I said. “Unless the Mr. Darth Vader Voice on the phone was agent Jake.”

“Probably more than two. Probably a huge operation. Why did they want to take him out?”

“No clue. Well, I guess the President gave me some clues. Let’s just say the guy wasn’t the cleanest pig in the pen.”

“And then someone stole the body? Who stole the body?”

“I dunno.That’s the real mind bender.”

How’d the manage to even get him out of the bathroom without anyone noticing?”

“I dunno. Maybe they pulled a Weekend At Bernies and danced the body straight out the front door.”

“Amazing,” Freddy said, shaking his head and eating.

Freddy told me that while he was waiting, he did in fact order the same thing I did; the secret code word. The waiter gave him the same note, but when he got to the bathroom, the waiter was their and beat the crap out of him.

“I didn’t stand a chance against her,Mic” Freddy confessed. “She was like female Rhonda Rousey.”

“Rhonda Rousey is female, Freddy,” I said.

“Really? You know I’m no good with sports.”

“So you don’t know who set the place on fire?” I asked him.

“No, but after what you told me I bet it was your assassinators trying to cover their tracks, remove all evidence of the secret passageway of stuff,” Freddy said with excitement. He was really into all this stuff.

Which why he was happy to join me on a location change. I figured it was a good time to get out of the country. And since, according to my bank account, I had more than enough money to retire, Freddy and I moved to Costa Rica. I bought a beach front house and you can find me routinely drinking Pina Coladas under an umbrella down by the shoreline.

Which is where I have been for the last year. Just kicking back and enjoying my newfound fame.

Yup, I’m pretty famous now. No, the world still doesn’t know about my role in the President’s death (they still haven’t recovered his body, by the way). But somehow, word spread through the underworld of a deadly hitman who uses, of all things, milk to kill his targets.

That’s right. I’m the Milkman.

Every now and then I get job offers to kill a diplomat or ex wife. I always turn them down, of course. This hasn’t stopped the requests from coming in. In fact, my price keeps going up. I figure I’m like the stock market: I’m worth millions, I just can’t ever cash out.

So this is my life now and I have to say, it’s way better than it was before. Do I feel guilty that my cushy lifestyle came at the expense of killing the President? I mean, sure, sometimes, but that guy was cheating scumbag. I probably did the country a great service.

The only thing that, if I’m honest, kind of nags at me is something that Freddy asked me one night while we were stargazing on beach, drinks in hand.

“I wonder what the real hitman is gonna do now,” Freddy said, stirring his drink and slurping.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That secret code word was set up for a hitman, right? You stumbled upon it first. But the job was supposed to be his. The huge payment was supposed to be his, too.”

But like I said, that only sometimes nags at me, but not so much anymore. It’s been a whole year and nothing has happened so I think we’re good.

I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about there.

———————————

THE END

So there I was, walking in the dark again, all the while hearing the booming reverberations of what sounds like music. It sounds like I’m approaching a club of some kind; strip club,night club, if it was a chess club it was the coolest sounding chess club ever.

I get to a flat wall that has an outline of a door. There’s a switch on it just like the one back in the bathroom stall I came from. I flick it up with the knife and the door slides open.

A woman is there. She’s wearing a shiny gold sequence mini dress and the largest earrings I have ever seen. Two small birds could sit comfortably on each.

She doesn’t say a word as she flies by me, running toward the elevator. Her eyes said everything though: terrified.

Makes me wonder if she got dragged into this the same way I did.

I wonder if she is being blackmailed like me.

I wonder what she’s doing later and if she has a boyfriend.

I quit the wondering and look forward. Guess what? It’s another bathroom stall! This one has dimmer lights and it’s difficult to hear with the blaring beats.

I sit on the toilet seat and wait.

My resolve feels like steel. I’ve got a steely resolve.

Until I hear the restroom door squeak open and the outer music bursts in.

An authoritative, dare I say, presidential voice says, “Wait out here, don’t come in unless I call you in. Don’t let anyone else in either.”

I can’t hear the response, but the message apparently gets through. I hear his steps coming my way.

“Baby? You in there?”

You know that steely resolve I was talking about? Turns out it was made of cotton candy. My hands are trembling.

“I’m right on time, baby,” the man says, approaching the stall. Chuckling, he says, “Time to open up!”

I thought I could do it. I didn’t want to do it, but I thought I had to do it. I had to kill this man. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I lift the seat and drop the knife into the toilet bowl. It makes a SPLUNK sound.

“Oh, you dropping a deuce in there? I can wait,” the man says.

As quietly as I can, I begin to slide under the stall wall to the left. I move under another stall after that. Then I sit and wait. With any luck, maybe he will think I’m just another pooper and his girl stood him up. That’s reasonable right? Then I’ll just go my own way.

“Hey, come on,” the man says, banging on the now empty stall door, “what’s going on in there? Say something!”

I figure nows the moment. I flush my toilet and causally walk to the sinks.

“Who’s there? Who’re you?” The President says, stumbling toward me. Now that I see him it’s clear he is very drunk.

“Me?” I say, washing my hands but so nervous that I forgot to on the water. “Nobody. I’m was just using the...”

“Where’s the girl that came in here?” He says.

“Girl?” I say, like I’ve never heard the word before.

The President turns around and squats down.

“There’s no one in that stall, but there was!” He says. He walks over to it and kicks the door in as I walk casually to the exit.

“You. Hold it,”He says to me.

I stop.

He walks up to me and holds a dripping knife inches from my face.

“This yours?” He says in my ear.

“It really isn’t,” I say.

“Empty your pockets,” he orders and I comply.

“You know,” he says and I can feel the creepy drunk presidents lips graze my poor, poor ear, “I’ve had two attempts on my life before. So many nights I’ve dreamed what I would do if I was alone in a room with one of them. Looks like tonight I get my wish!”

The President goes to stab me. I dodge just in time to avoid the first blow, but his second swing slashes my left shoulder. The pain vibrates through my whole body.

I stubble back into the closest sink. Teeth gleaming, the President charges again. I catch his arm. It takes all my stretch to hold him back.

“I was an officer for twenty years, punk!” The President growls, so close his spittle splashes my face, “your nothing! Nothing!”

“I know! I know!” I yell. Panic sets in. With all the force I can muster, I slam my forehead into is face.

He yelps and falls back, clutching his nose. He still holds the knife.

I don’t want to fight him, but it’s clear he is not going to stop unless forced. So I sprint full speed and collide with his gut. I ram him into a stall, slamming open the door and crashing into the porcelain pot. The knife clatters to the ground.

We’re both on the ground and now he has the advantage. He starts pounding my back. This sixty something guy has the strength of a seventy something gorilla; which is to say, not a ton but more than to be expected.

“Stop! Just stop! Let me explain!” I say. I pull free of his grip and back off. My shirt is damp with blood oozes from my shoulder.

“Begging won’t help you!” The crazy President says as he lifts the toilet tank lid off and raises it over his head. He’s gonna throw the damn thing at me.

“Listen, old man! I’m not here to kill you!” I say.

“Your gonna have to if you want to live, punk!” He yells and hurls the tank lid at me.

I duck and it hits the bathroom mirror, shattering down in a loud crash.

Then he picks up the knife again.

I am so glad I didn’t vote for this guy.

I pick up the tank lid to use as a shield. He thrusts and I block it with a CLINK. He smiles and slashes again. I block again.

He really isn’t going to stop. I have to stop him before he cuts me open. More, before he cuts me open more. My shoulder hurts.

The President goes to strike. With two hands on the tank lid, I rear back and swing. I bat the knife out of his hand, sending it flying. Then, in a move that takes be back to little league, I connect with his left knee,. He crumbles to the floor with a cry.

I drop the tank lid and grab the man by the hair, dragging him to the toilet. I lift seat and dunk his head underwater. I hold it there.

I feel my steely resolve return as I continue to hold him under, his limbs flailing.

I swear I’ve never done anything this violent before. Fights, sure, lots. But this level of putting the hurt on is new to me. Truth be told, it’s a bit exhilarating.

When I’m pretty sure the President is going to ready to surrender, I let go. He splashes out with a loud desperate gasp for air. He lies on the ground, taking huge, he’s leaving gulps.

I try to stand and realize I don’t have the strength to do it.

“Damn son,” the President breathes out, “looks like you’ve done your job.” Just don’t gloat about it. Just finish it.”

Breathing heavy as well I say, “I guess I would say it’s an honor to meet you but you stabbed me in the shoulder.”

“The girl,” the President says, “She was with you. You lured me in here, knowing I’d be alone with little security. Not many know about my....activities here. Someone in my cabinet betrayed me. You were sent to kill me, right?”

“Well, yeah but...” I start.

“Is this about the Ukraine incident ?” He interrupts.

“I really don’t know,” I say.

“The women?”

“I don’t know.”

“The voter fraud?”

“I don’t...”

“It’s the hit on the Kentucky Senator, isn’t it?”

“I....”

“That time with the underaged....”

“Holy crap please stop talking!” I shout. “Listen, your right. You got it straight. I don’t know about your inner cabinet stuff, but there’s people out to kill you. I accidentally got mixed up in this and then they said they’d kill me and my family if I didn’t do what they said.”

I tell him my whole story.

“Looks like you’re not going to do what they said,” the President says.

“Can you protect me?” I ask.

“I suppose we can,” he says. “Get you to a safe house, change your name. What is your name, by the way?”

“Mickey.”

“George.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, it’s just always weird for me to not say it back.”

Turns out the corrupt, cheating bastard who I had to nearly kill to get him to listen was pretty understanding.

“We’ll need you to tell us everything, be willing to testify to help put these bastards away.”

“Absolutely,” I say, suddenly not feeling so scared of ‘Ol Darth Vader Voice.

We help each other up and make our way through the glass covered floor to the sink. We run water over our faces.

“Not a bad fighter,” the President says, smiling.

Thanks, same to you, sir,” I say. Movies tell me you always call the President either Mr. President or Sir.

“I apologize for stabbing you in the shoulder, my boys will get that cleaned up for you,” he says.

“Speaking of your boys, why didn’t they burst in here with all the yelling and banging going on?” I ask, tossing water on my cut.

President George chuckles. “Oh, they know better than to come in during that racket. The more unusual sound for them to hear would be silence.”

Creepy.

“What’s this? Some kind of candy?” I look over and he’s got the baggie in his hand.

“Yeah, friend of mine invented it. Milk bombs,” I say.

The President tosses three of them in his mouth.

It doesn’t happen right away. It takes a moment.

I’m trying to look at my stab wound in the reflection of a shard of mirror when I heard him gagging.

I turn and his eyes are wide and begging. He’s clutching his throat. Milk is dripping from his mouth and nose. He runs to the toilet like he’s going to throw up.

“Hold on! Lemme do the Heimlich” I yell. I’ve never done the Heimlich. Again, movies.

The President is still choking or maybe drowning in milk, and he’s on his knees in from of the toilet. I run over to help, but I make it worse. Much worse.

See, the floor is all wet from when I was giving him a swirly. As I sprint to save the President’s life, I slip and fly towards him. My full body weight piles onto the back of The President’s neck, squeezing it into the porcelain bowl edge with a faint CRUNCH.

You heard that right.

CRUNCH.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, you ok?” I say as I get off him and to my feet.

He doesn’t move.

“Mr. President?” I say, kind of afraid to touch him. He lays still, head dipped over into the toilet bowl, arms dangling.

“George?” I say. I figure after what we’ve been through, I’ve earned the right to call him by his first name.

When he doesn’t respond, I go to lift him up, and that’s when I realize he’s dead.

Sitting there next to him, I don’t know exactly what did it. Was it the choking? Did I snap his neck? It did look extra wobbly, but who knows? Maybe all dead guys’ necks and heads wobble lifelessly like this.

All I knew was that the President was dead.

I killed him.

It was then that the restroom door creaked open.

——————————————- To Be Continued

You stare into the darkness. You can feel a draft of air coming from the tunnel, so it’s a safe bet it leads somewhere. So you figure you’ve come this far, might as well see it through so you have a story to tell Freddy. You step into the tunnel.

Pulling out your phone and turning on the flash light, you make your way down a steep makeshift path; mostly dirt and mud, with occasional pieces of plywood draped over large dips or pools of water.

You feel like your in another world. It feels like your traveling to the earths core on foot.

Right when you begin to entertain the idea of turning back, you see an elevator up ahead. A flipping elevator.

You approach the doors and they open, revealing a red lit interior with shiny mirrored walls. On the floor sits a phone. It looks nicer than yours.

There’s also a knife.

You step into the elevator and the doors immediately shut. There’s only one button: up.

You look at the button, you don’t think about the knife, and take a deep breathe. You’re not scared or anything, it was just a long walk, you know?

You press the button and the elevator rumbles to life. You have to catch yourself from falling. The phone rings one of those standard, built-in ringtones. You always personalize yours, right now you have it set to Heaven by Bryan Adams. You pick it up.

“Hello?” You say.

The voice on the other side is deep. Too deep. It’s got one of those voice modulation things going on.

“When the elevator reaches your destination, you will only have a short window to execute the target. When the hit is done, exit the way you came.”

“Wait, wait. Execute? Hit?”

“Since you’ve been in this elevator, we have accessed your bank account. Upon confirmation of job, payment will be made.”

“Wait! What am I supposed to do? I don’t know what’s going on!”

The other line says, “They told me you would be fully briefed. What’s going on?”

“Man, do not ask me! I have zero clue what’s going on! I was just eating my dinner when I found this note telling me to go to the bathroom. I thought at first the waiter was into me, ya know? I’m not into quick flings, but I did find it very flattering. Also, you got my bank account info? How did you do that? That’s got to be illegal or something.”

Now the guy on the other line is quiet.

“....Hello? You still there?” You finally ask.

“You received the note?” He says.

“In my Dinner? Yes, I did.”

“You said the secret phrase and received the directions to this elevator?”

“Secret phrase? I didn’t say any secret phrase! I just ordered my dinner and the waiter brought it and this note was in it,” you say.

“You said ‘chicken Alfredo but hold the chicken, a Caprese salad with cheddar cheese instead of mozzarella, and a cup of milk?’”

This time, you’re the one dumbstruck.

“Hello?” The deep voice says.

“THAT WAS THE SECRET PHRASE??” You yell. “I didn’t know that was a secret phrase! I just was ordering din din!”

“That’s... highly unlikely. What are the chances of you saying the exact words as the secret phrase?”

“A trabillion to one,” You say.

“That’s not a real number,” the voice says. “But it doesn’t matter now. Whether you are the hitman we contracted or Joe the Wal-Mart greeter, you are doing this job.”

“What is it you want me to do?” You say. You think maybe it’s something doable. Illegal, but doable. Something you can live with.

“You are to assassinate the President of the United States with that knife behind you.”

You look back at the knife.

“Right. Yeah. Cool. Straight forward,” you say, but you don’t know what your saying. You mind is reeling.

“If you do not complete the task,” the voice says slowly, “ you will be hunted down and killed. Your friends will be killed. Your family will be killed.”

“Right. Yeah. Cool. Straight forward,” you say. Holding the phone with your shoulder, you try at prying the elevator doors open. No way.

“The target is at a location known to very few. It’s not on any of his itinerary. He will only have two or three secret service with him.”

You circle the elevator, feeling the walls, looking for anything, any way out.

“He will be entering a restroom thinking he is meeting a girl. He will find you instead.”

You jump for the ceiling panels because that’s how people in the movies get out of elevators. Damn your short legs! Damn your father for not being a Harlem Globetrotter!

Now you’re thinking of your Dad.

You think of Freddy.

You think of yourself.

“Thank you for your service to the country,” the voice says and CLICK, he’s gone.

The elevator halts.

It gives a little ding.

The doors slide open.

You let them close.

So here you are.

Alone.

You suddenly remember the phone is your hand and figure you’ll call the police. But the phone has zero reception, no call works. You try your own phone. Same results. You realize it must be getting blocked.

Blocked by the people who could access your bank account and know everything about you.

Who are connected and dangerous enough to plan a President killing.

People who now know you are nothing special and will kill you and kill Freddy and Dad and Jacklyn from accounting even though she’s already deaf in her left ear.

And there’s something else that’s bugging you, even though it shouldn’t. The secret phrase. Your little joke about ordering chicken Alfredo but hold the chicken? That was so predictable it had been part of someone’s secret phrase. So on top of all this, you realize you’re not funny.

So now, what would you do, huh? If you were me.

You could confess to the president himself. Maybe he could protect you. Maybe Mr. Darth Vader Voice was bluffing about all the killing.

Maybe you kill the President and they kill you anyway.

Seriously, what would you do if you were in my situation? If you were standing in that red elevator, options at zero?

Well.

I’ll tell you what I did.

I picked up the knife and walked through the elevator doors.

——————————————- To Be Continued

The note is damp from the sauce but the words are still legible:

                      men’s restroom
                      Third stall from door
                      Switch behind toilet

You read the note about 16 more times. In between each time you look over in the direction of the restrooms, as if they personally sent you this note. But the toilets didn’t send you the note. The waiter did.

Now, you’re thinking you might know what’s up. You’re thinking that maybe the dull waiter noticed your natural attractiveness. That would make sense of the first two lines in this weird haiku. But “switch behind the toilet?” Was “switch” what the kids were calling it these days?

Then something unexpected happens. Your friend Freddy bursts into the restaurant like it’s on fire and he’s here to save you. He’s wearing his usual floral tank top with shorts, baseball cap (backwards), and his backpack crammed to capacity.

“Mick!” He calls across the room, annoying everyone. Including Mick.

You’re Mick. I mean, I’m Mick. Mickey Smith Carson. But you already knew that, right?

Anyway, so Freddy trots over to me...sorry....

Freddy trots over to YOU and lands in the booth seat across from you. It’s awkward and loud.

“You should probably take the backpack off, be a lot more comfortable,” you say.

“Oh, right,” Freddy squeezes out of the straps, but not with the banging the table a few times, causing more patrons of this respectable establishment to shoot nasty eyes at us.

“I’m so glad I found you! When you weren’t home and not at your dad’s house, figured you’d be here. This is your go-to,” Freddy says with a proud smile.

“That it is,” you say. You ask him what’s got him in such a frenzied state. It’s a silly thing to ask, because this is Freddy’s normal state.

“Mick, I got it! I got the recipe right! This is gonna be the big one!” He starts digging through this back pack.

“Which one is this?” You ask, because Freddy is always scheming up new gadgets or new snack items. He actually isn’t half bad at it. He was on that one show that one time. But nothing has every really panned out. Good thing for Freddy is, just as you are naturally attractive, he is naturally rich.

“I’m talking about the candy! The one I have you to thank for the inspiration,” Freddy says.

He pulls out of his back pack a huge rectangle slab of what looks like hard clay and it slams heavily onto the table.

“Freddy, I love ya, but that is the least edible looking thing I have ever seen in my life. It looks like it could crush my skull,” you say.

“Oh ,it totally could! That may to the most impenetrable substance ever created! I call it Impenetrum! That’s not the candy, though.”

He finally finds what he’s looking for and whips it out. He holds up a small plastic bag with about six round, white and blue marbled balls.

“Behold!” He says, “milk bombs!”

You nod approvingly. You do like milk.

“It’s a sucking candy and after a few seconds, when the outer layer is sucked off, it bursts in your mouth!” He claps his hands together.

“Hey, keep it down with all that sucking and bursting talk,” you say, feels the eyes of the room on you.

“It’s a milky explosion!” He yells. Freddy cannot be contained. He pulls one out of the bag. “ Here, you gotta try one.”

“Sure, but I’m still in the middle of my dinner, which reminds me, I gotta tell you about something...”

“Come on, your an adult! Eat a piece of candy in the middle of your dinner!” Freddy says, thrusting the white ball towards you.

“I just want to eat this first,” you say.

“I came all the way here!” Freddy says.

“Exactly! Just chill with me, and then I’ll try it,” you say, “Order something.”

“No, I already ate. Come on man! Just try it! Your already drinking milk!” Freddy insists.

You begin to reconsider because your a great friend. “ it’s not too sugary?”

“Heaven forbid!” Freddy says. “I don’t want to say anymore about it. You need to experience it!”

You take the milk bomb and your just about to pop it in your mouth when Freddy says quickly, “ I guess I should tell you their might be a slight chance it doesn’t explode when it should and it’ll happen in your throat or gut.”

“Is that bad?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Have you tried it yet?”

“No way.I gotta kid to try it and the milk came out his nose and ears and he screamed and ran away.”

You put down the milk bomb.

“But I’m positive that’s gonna be a rare occurrence! Please, I need somebody to try them! I would but I’m lactose intolerant,” Freddy says, handing me the whole bag.

You tell him you’ll save them for later and stuff the bag in your pocket, but not too deep. If they happen to fall out while walking home, well, oops.

You catch him up to speed on the weird note in your soup.

“Maybe you won something! Like a door prize,” Freddy says. His appetite miraculously returns and he eats off your plate.

“Maybe it wasn’t meant for me,” You say. The waiter hasn’t shown her face since.

“You ordered off menu. How could it be for anyone else? The chances of somebody else ordering exactly what you ordered has gotta be, like, trabillion to one!” Freddy says.

“I guess I should just go check it out. Should I go check it out?” You say.

“You go check it out,” Freddy says, mouthful of Alfredo. “I’ll wait here. Im gonna order something.”

“Maybe you should order what I did, see what happens,” you say. You stand up from the table, starring in the direction of the bathrooms.

You look back at Freddy.

“You went to see my dad?” You say, doing a great job at staying emotionally even and cool.

“Yeah,” Freddy says. “He’s doing good.”

“That’s good,” you say.

“Been a while?” Freddy asks.

“Yeah,” you say. A volcano in your core is threatening to overtaken you now, so you quickly leave the table, regretting you pushed the subject.

And here I am bringing it up again! You don’t need to know any of that. I have some daddy issues, don’t we all? Just forget I said anything about that.

You walk to the bathrooms. You walk in the men’s and your eyes dart to the third stall.

It’s occupied. You can see black shoes and blue jeans.

The other two stalls are vacant. You act casual and wait for the stall to vacate, leaning against the wall. You watch the man’s black shoes shift and he grunts.

Another enters, glances at you as he heads for a urinal. As the man relieves himself, he slowly looks at you again, surely wondering why your standing there.

You shrug and give a sheepish smile. “Favorite stall,” you say, nodding towards the occupied commode. The man gives you that look you used to get from all the cute girls back in high school. The disgusted one.

The toilet flushes finally. After a minute, the door opens and a stout man with balding hair exits, giving you an “all yours” expression.

You enter the stall. The toilet is still refilling with water, churning on the inside. The sound of the faucet flowing is coming from outside the stall at the sinks.

You figure it’s now or never. You squat beside the pot and reach your hand behind the toilet and feel around. You grimace. This is of course the nastiest part of the toilet. Even janitors often neglect to clean behind here.

All of a sudden you feel it.

It’s a switch. Like a light switch in the down position.

You listen. You hear what sounds like the stout man drying his hands with the automatic dryer. You wait. It stops and you here the door open, then close.

You flip the switch.

And the wall behind the toilet slides away, revealing a black tunnel.

———————————— To Be Continued

Socks-n-Sandals Brew Pub was always busy, but especially so on Game Night. Neither the game, nor the sport, were all that important. What mattered was that a game was on, or that talking heads were talking about a game about to be on, or a game that had just finished. Tonight, it was Raiders/Chargers, which was interesting enough to fill the place.

Gary wasn’t much of a sports guy. “I’ll play sports, I just don’t like watching them,” was a favorite way to explain his odd aversion. “I’ll watch anything in the finals, but regular season stuff is a bore,” another. Gary was different than his other friends in many ways, not just his less-than-mild interest in Sport Ball. Approaching 35, he was the last one of Swole Team 6–a name that used to make sense, when they were all younger and in great shape—to get married. He was the one still renting, not paying a mortgage. He still drove a two-seater truck and had a motorcycle.

And he had yet to start a family.

Gary liked his life. A lot. He loved being a husband, but even that was a new addition to an otherwise bachelor-ish existence.

“Yo, that was holding!”

“You see that, bro? Such garbage!”

“I just need Herbert to play well, the rest of my draft is a dumpster fire.”

Gary took a drink of his microbrew porter as his buddies worked on downing a couple pitchers of Coors Light. The crowd erupted with cheers as the Chargers quarterback scrambled for a forty yard touchdown.

“You fellas ready to order?”

The group of six turned simultaneously toward the only thing that could divert their attention from the game. The waitress, in her early 20s, was not only lovely, but held the power to bring them food. One by one, they ordered: Burger; Burger with bacon; Burger with bacon and an onion ring; A personal pepperoni pizza; More chicken wings than any grown person should consume in one sitting. When it came time for Gary to order he did something he never did: He made a corny joke.

“And for you…?”

“I’ll have steak mychos.”

“Nachos?”

“No, not-chos, mine.”

The groans were loud and instant from his friends. “Oh, dude, no!”

Gary smiled. They all laughed, more out of pity than humor; At him, not with him, but that was okay. The surprising thing was the waitress. She didn’t laugh or cringe or even question it. She just said, “Mychos. You got it.”

“Bro, I think you pissed her off.”

“Nah, she’s fine. She probably hears lame jokes from creepers all the time.”

“I’m not a creeper,” Gary protested.

“Yeah, but she thinks you are, now.” Laughs all around.

They consumed more cheap beers and watched more football and laughed and joked and enjoyed their night away from the responsibilities of parenthood. After twenty minutes or so, the waitress was back at the table. She popped out the tray-stand she was carrying with one hand, then placed the massive tray she was carrying with the other on top and started to hand out the orders.

Gary watched, wondering if he really had made her mad, when she said, “Your food is on the way, should just be a second.”

His friends were, of course, supportive. “Ohhhhh, you in trouble now, son!”

He watched as his friends started to dig in. After a moment, and elderly man scoot-stepped his way to from the kitchen to the table, carrying a large plate with two hands. He placed it in front of Gary with a slight thud of glass on Formica. “Your Mychos, sir.”

“Hey, listen, I was just making a joke. You know, a silly pun? Nachos. Not-chos. It’s like saying, ‘not yours.’ But I said mycho—“

“I understand, sir. Please, enjoy.”

He shuffled away, leaving Gary to gaze upon the massive pile of chips and cheese and jalapeños. It looked like nachos. Regular nachos. There were olives, guacamole, salsa, and—because he was splurging—some perfectly cooked strip steak. It looked amazing, smelled amazing.

“You not eating?”

“Ha. He’s worried she spit in it or something.”

“Dude, she didn’t. Those look amazing, if you don’t want them I’ll eat—“

“It’s fine. I’ll eat them.” He took a tentative bite. They were fine. Actually, better than fine. Perfect. They were the best nachos he’d ever had. It was almost like, with that first bite, some kind of dopamine release flooded his body. They may, he decided, be the best food he’d ever had, anywhere. His body tingled as he took another greedy bite, than another.

The men ate, laughed, talked football. Everything seemed, well, perfect. Gary was thinking about that when he caught part of a conversation:

“…what I’m saying is that, if you really want to get an even cut, you need to start with good seed.”

“Sure, the seed is important—which is why I paid extra for the Carolina Blue—but the cut is all in the mower—“

Before Gary knew what he was saying the words were out of his mouth. “Well, Eric is probably still using a gas mower, when you can get a higher quality cut with an electric for pennies on the dollar.”

The five men stopped and stared at him.

“What?”

“Bro. We must be getting to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have an opinion on mowers? You have a gardener, bro.”

Gary felt strange, like something had taken control of his body, his thoughts. Like, somehow, he was in his mind and watching from a distance all at once.

“Next thing you know he’ll start talking about weather.”

Gary, again, couldn’t stop himself. “What do you know about weather. You probably think the barometric pressure drop this afternoon means rain, when it’s obvious that a low-pressure front is coming in from the east, which is going to push everything—“

“Dude! What happened to you?”

“What? I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Is he making fun of us?”

They laughed.

“I have a test for him. What are you doing tonight, after your return home to your young, super-hot bride?”

Gary thought for a moment, then: “Oh, you know, same ol’, same ol’. Probably just grab some of the candy I hid on the top shelf, kick up my feet, and watch that new History Channel doc on tall ships. Looks pretty good.”

Blank stares.

“Okay, seriously. What’s up? You being an ass or something?”

Gary was legitimately confused. He suddenly felt the urge to use the restroom and stood up.

His five friends all said “whoa” in unison.

Gary was suddenly self-conscious. “What? What are you—“

“What. The. Hell. Bro?”

“What,” Gary said, getting angry.

“Look… down.”

He did.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Thoughts shot into his head, crashing into each other, creating chaos. He ran to the restroom.

Out of breath, heart racing, he looked behind the door to the full-length mirror.

How?

All he could do was stare, take it all in.

Everything was different. Where he’d had a flat stomach, his gut now hung over his belt. Well, where his belt… used to be. Now, he was wearing an Under Armour shirt, the kind made for going to the gym. The kind he would never wear to dinner. His jeans were straight-legged, the length just slightly high enough to show the white socks—WHITE SOCKS!—peaking out above his New Balance sneakers.

Gary put a hand on the wall to steady himself. What was happening? He took a breath, tried to think, when his other hand fell to his side, brushing against something near his waist. He looked back at the mirror, lifted his shirt up, and nearly had to be admitted to the hospital for a myocardial infarction.

Around his waist, holding his wallet and phone—as well as a lighter, some coupons, a punch card for a local coffee shop, some nail clippers, another punch card for a local diner, and a half-consumed roll of antacids—was a black leather—BLACK LEATHER!—fanny pack.

It took him ten minutes before he finally walked out of the bathroom.

His friends had gone back to normal, enjoying the night, when he sat back down at the table.

“You good, man?”

Gary could barely find his voice. “Yeah.”

“You going to finish those?”

He looked at the nachos, again speaking without thought. “No, you go ahead, if I eat spicy food this late I’ll be up all night with indigestion.”

Confused, he watched as the other men started grabbing chips. Nothing happened to them when they ate. They just… enjoyed them. No change.

Maybe he was having a neurological incident? Stress at work? Tape worm?

He was thinking of all the strange health reasons that might explain his sudden physical change when his phone chirped. He looked at the screen, a text from his young bride.

Okay, Mister, time to come home. The kids have school in the morning and you need to take them. I have an appointment.

He felt the blood rush from his head.

He stood, looked for the kitchen entrance, and stumble-walked toward it. He had to find the old man.

The kitchen staff moved around him like he wasn’t there, spinning and juking like running backs. Organized chaos, like a well-choreographed musical production.

There he was, toward the back.

“Sir?”

“What did you do to me?”

“Sir?”

“Everything is different!” he said, waving a hand over his new dad-bod physique. “I’m wearing a fanny pack! My knees hurt and I have opinions on local politics! And my wife is texting me about kids! WE DON’T HAVE KIDS!”

“Ah. There seems to be a mistake.”

“A mistake!”

“It would seem, sir, that you ordered off the special menu.”

“Special menu?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What ‘special menu?”

“We, well, specialize in a certain… clientele, here at Socks-n-Sandals, sir. It would appear that you, unknowingly, if you will, ordered off the Dad Joke menu.”

“The what?”

“The Dad Joke menu. It includes, of course, Apple Turn-back-overs, Naan-of-Your-Business, Vegetarian Missed-Steak—“

“What are you talking about. I didn’t order—“

“You ordered the ‘Mychos,’ sir.”

“It was a joke. A lame joke!”

“They all are, sir. I suppose there was no way for us to know that you were not, in fact, a dad.”

“But how did—“

“The universe righted the discrepancy.”

“Righted the discrepen—what? What are you, put me back to normal!”

“I cannot do that, sir. Our chefs are, well, quite special, sir.”

“You have to—“

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Gary stood out front of his house for twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven. He knew exactly how long he was out there because it would have been an hour—or maybe days—had his wife not texted again. It wouldn’t hit him until the next morning that he had knew where the house was, and that it was an actual house, with an actual mortgage, and a nicely cut front lawn.

He opened the door, finally, and stepped inside.

He heard his wife yelling from the kitchen: “You two should be in bed. Now!”

He heard tiny feet plat-plat-platting along the tile floor.

Two small voices cried out in unison.

“Daddy’s home!”

So, I am a bit of a prankster. I remember the day that I accidentally took a joke too far. I only did it once. Never again. The sun was shining, it was a Saturday night, and my friends and I were watching TV. After the game, we went to get burgers to celebrate. I ordered buffalo wings with very crazy, very spicy sauces. That day when the order was taken, the police showed up. Everyone panicked. They thought I knew someone had an explosive on them. I hate code words. Damn, I can never have any fun. I almost got arrested. I had to write a letter of apology to the restaurant as well as the police department. That was not a fun day.

“How about truth or dare?” I suggested to my very bored best friend. “Fine, I dare you to order a pine tree” Mia said and I rolled my eyes. “What kind of dare is that?” “Just do it,” She snapped and I sighed. She had been on edge all night after her grandmother had disappeared. Nobody had seen her in a month and Mia had always been very close with her. They bonded over their shared love of cooking and hoped to one day open a restaurant together. In an attempt to distract her from the angry stage of grief she was currently in I suggested going out to eat although it was proving to not be as smart as I originally thought. “What would you ladies like tonight?” The waiter asked. In an impulse decision I said “A pine tree please,”

The man looked at me in panic and whispered, “come with me,” I wasn’t sure what to do but Mia immediately got up so I followed.

We walked into the back room which was a large kitchen that smelled strongly of cinnamon. A women stood with her back to us facing the stove, her silvery grey hair tied up in a bun. “Nana?” Mia asked and the women turned around to face us revealing none other then Mia’s grandmother. “Nana what are you doing here,” Mia whispered, a tear slipping down her face. “Mia what are you doing here?” Nana asked skeptically. “What are you doing here?” She retorted, tears falling faster now. I quickly moved towards my best friend hugging her as her grandmother started confused at us. “These nice people asked me to make them some food,” Her grandmother said quietly. Breaking away from Mia I said “Mrs. Perks if you don’t mind me asking how long have you been here?” “Just an hour. Why?” Her grandmother responded and all of a sudden everything clicked. “Wha-“ Mia started but I interrupted, “Mia we have to go,” “Wha-“ “Trust me,” She nodded as I pulled her out. Running of the restaurant feeling the cold November air burn my throat. “Emma, Emma where are we going?” Mia asked “Far away from there,” “But Nana is there.. what about Nana and why did she think she was only think she was there for an hour- Oh Emma what if she-“ I cut her off by pressing my lips to hers. Feeling her cool lips press against mine for a brief moment before we pulled apart.

She stared at me and suddenly started giggling hysterically. “What? What’s so funny?” I asked “Nothing just- what happened back there” Mia responded “Uh well I think she might be caught in a time loop,” “So how would we get her out,”. “I don’t think we do,” I responded, “But she’s happy, did you see her in there?” “Yeah I guess,” Mia responded “I’m sorry Mia,” I said and she smiled softly back at me, “it’s alright. She’s way happier then I’ve ever seen her,” Mia said.

I’m not a bad person. Did I assassinate the President of the United States? Yes. And that’s not great. I’ll admit that. I’m probably going to keep “President assassinator” off my future job applications, even though I was actually really good at it and it was my first time.

If you were in my shoes, you would have done the same thing. Hear me out.

Imagine you’re a 38 year old single man with above average good looks. Why a handsome devil like you is still single is a mystery for the ages, like the recipe for KFC’s chicken or whether the earth is flat or not.

Let’s say you had a bad day at work. You’d think that after nearly ten years they’d respect you more, but no. One little mistake, and they never let you forget it. Will Jacklyn from accounting have permanent hearing loss in her left ear? Yes, but lots of people have had it worse than her and accomplished amazing things. Look at Joni Eareckson Tada. She wrote a book!

So your feeling kinda low and decide to treat yourself to a fancy din din. You go to your favorite little Italian restaurant , the one with a view of the Washington Monument ( you live in Washington DC, did I mention that?). You go here often. It’s your go-to. You always order the same thing: The chicken Alfredo with a side of grilled asparagus and a glass of red wine. You don’t care what kind, you can’t really taste the difference. You don’t even really like wine, but you’re an adult and you’re expected to drink wine.

But on this particular night, with you pondering your singleness, your job-stuckness, your expectedness, your sameness, you decide to mix it up a bit.

When the waiter approaches, you order chicken Alfredo but hold the chicken( a little joke there), a caprese salad with cheddar cheese instead of mozzarella, and a cup of milk.

You love milk.

So the waiter freezes for a moment. She stares at you like you were someone she just now recognized, like an undercover Johnny Depp. And if Johnny Depp stabbed her in the leg. She says, “Very well,” and disappears into the kitchen.

You wait a long time for you food. Your thinking you confused her with your Alfredo joke. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who watches tons of stand up like you do. And, on a side note, she’s not as good looking as you either.

The waiter returns with your meal. It’s exactly like you ordered it, and, sure enough, no chicken. But that’s fine. You scarf your meal, gulp your drink, and try not to stare longingly at the other patrons imagining how much more happy and adventurous their lives are than yours.

That’s when you discover the note; a post-it rolled up like a tiny scroll mixed in with your Alfredo sans chicken.

————————————————- To Be Continued