Last supper

[WP] Prisoners can ask for anything for their last meal. The catch is, if it can't be provided to them, they get set free. They've asked for many things : alien egg omelette, dragon steak, the flesh of Jesus Christ, etc. The execution streak remained unbroken for decades, until today.

*****

"Alright, Mr. Johnson," the warden had begun six months ago, easing back in his leather chair. "What is your last request?"

I had spent years in prison as court proceedings dragged on, the final result being my guilty verdict and subsequent sentencing to death. I had spent years researching my way free, only to realize I had none.

The court was built to keep people like me imprisoned for life. This is the American Reign of Terror, but instead of aristocrats sent to the guillotine it's the folks who don't have the means to conform to society who find themselves tied down in the chair, or facing a row of well-to-do men aiming rifles at their head. These riflemen are protected from guilt for their murder via the Schrodinger's bullet- is it real, or is it a blank? Who knows. . . and who cares?

So I figured out how to get back at them. How to end their perfect streak of executions against the burdened and struggling of our society. I knew what my last request would be.

"Mr. Johnson?" the warden repeated.

My glazed-over eyes refocused on the man in front of me. I cleared my throat. "Apologies, Mr. Hobbes. I would like my last meal to be the man that I murdered."

The warden's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. "Pardon me, Mr. Johnson but I think I misheard. You would like your last meal to be the man you murdered? The one whose murder landed you here, in my prison, facing the death penalty?"

I nodded. "That's right, Mr. Hobbes. I know y'all have quite a streak going, what with the dragons and aliens you've found to satisfy your prisoners' requests, so I figure this should be pretty simple for you."

"Indeed it should," the warden answered slowly, although a frown creased his face. I knew what was going through his mind- I had willingly confessed to my murder. I pled guilty, I signed the papers, I made peace with the fact that I would spend years in prison only to have my life abruptly ended at the green age of 38. The one thing they didn't have, was the body.

My victim was never found, and it remained a sore spot for their family and the police who had worked on the case. I knew that was the case, and I frankly didn't care. The man I killed had grievously wronged my family, and absolutely deserved what happened. He deserved to never be found, never be buried, never be sent off.

"If you've done so much research," the warden continued, "then you know we have six months to meet your request before we terminate your imprisonment and release you. But don't you worry, Mr. Johnson, it never takes us that long."

"Oh, I have faith in your abilities," I replied with a smile.

And now, six months later, I found myself sitting on my thin prison cell cot, stomach growling and awaiting my freedom. Their smug belief that they'd find my victim in time was almost comical for the first few weeks, and then whispers began among the prison guards. Even the other prisoners started to talk, and my freedom, the first to be awarded in decades, was about to be cause for celebration among my peers.

Finally a guard unlocked my cell and led me to the warden's office once again, where I sat across from Mr. Hobbes in his plump leather chair. This time he was stroking his chin thoughtfully, as he knew I had won. He gave a chuckle as I sat down and met his gaze.

"Well, Mr. Johnson, you've done it. You've outwitted our best acquisitors, and as promised we are prepared to offer you your freedom." He grabbed a sheet of paper from the counter behind him and placed it on his desk. Sliding it toward me, he said, "Go ahead and sign at the bottom, and I'll do the same. Then you'll be free."

I did as he said, and slid it back to him. He lowered his pen to the line, then paused and leaned toward me like two friends sharing a secret. With a smile, he asked, "How did you do it, Mr. Johnson? I won't break our promise to you, I just want to know. How are you not eating that poor man for lunch today?"

I smiled and leaned in until our faces were but a foot apart. "If you insist, Mr. Hobbes, I'll tell you why I'm not eating him today- because I already ate him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the day that he died. That is, my dear warden, how I am a free man."

*****

THE END

A rather gritty one, and unexpectedly so, but I enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much!