A Dish Best Served....

John Hartley had spent the last fourteen years staring at a concrete wall, with not much more than a view of a Maine ocean-side cliff and a sink, which he used to down his toothpaste. The view was nice, though. Compliments of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had told them some pretty juicy and gruesome details about what he had done starting twenty-one years prior. Oh, how he craved to be sneaking into a home on a weeknight while a family devoured a delicious meal. He was, after all, a serial killer. One who preyed on young families while they enjoyed a meal around the dinner table. This was something that would eventually come to be known as his MO, which stands for Modus Operandi, which refers to a mode of operating or a specific method the serial killer used to commit their crimes. John would be known as The Supper Club Slayer. Something a sleaze bag journalist coined after the series of murders rocked small-town Maine many years ago. The detective on the case despised the name; he felt as though it was a glorification of the man who had destroyed many lives. Bang, bang. The guard slammed his baton into the metal bars that caged John. “Time to get up, Hartley. You’ve got an appointment,” said guardsman Dean, who had been in charge of the oversight of John for a long time. A fair guard but not a kind one by any stretch of the word. “Okay.” John’s voice came out weak and hoarse. He rarely spoke, so when he did, his already feeble voice seemed to be even smaller than previously. He wondered who he could see for an appointment because he had his yearly physical just two months prior. They said he was quite healthy for a forty-five-year-old man. His tall and slim frame had become pudgy since his time in the clink. He had only an hour to exercise, and the food here was atrocious. The door they stopped at said “Head of Culinary Affairs”.

John was now intrigued by this. He assumed this was the head chef’s office. He thought maybe they were going to put him on the work detail as he had requested for so many years. When the door opened, a fat man was sitting in a button-down shirt, the middle button on the verge of flying across the room after it broke from the exhaustion of holding the man’s massive belly. “Come in, John, have a seat.” When he spoke, his mustache jumped up and down like a thick white caterpillar on a walk across his face. John sat, and Dean left both of them in the room to discuss business. The arm and ankle cuffs he wore dug into his skin, a rude reminder not to try and make any crazy escapes. “John, do you know why you’re here?” the chef asked. “Um, I uh am being put on work detail?” He said. The chef chuckled and shook his head. “No son, you are being executed. I am here to discuss your final meal. So what’s on the menu?” said the chef. John's insides twisted. This question had loomed over him for such a long time. Ever since he was sentenced to death, he felt like his final meal was his grand exit. He knew the news would report on it, considering his MO hinged upon murdering people during their final meal. He figured people would make YouTube videos on the topic. Maybe even famous people repeating that final bite he took before the needle hit his vein. “Can I have some time to think about it?” He asked the chef

“Unfortunately not, son. You’ve been on row for fourteen coming up on fifteen years. You’ve had plenty of time to contemplate the last meal you will ever consume,” the chef responded. He shook his head and rubbed his sweaty hands together. This was the most important decision of his life. It was great joy to be given the sentence when he got it. He felt like his final meal was the bow to his fans. Oh boy, did he have many. People wrote to him all the time telling him their admiration of what he had done, how he had done it. “Keep in mind most everything is on the table, but this does need to be within reason," said the chef. He shook his head and, as quietly as a mouse, responded to the chef, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Okay, I want to start with a basket of rolls. Fresh ones with a tablespoon of butter on top of each. I will then follow it up with a chicken fried steak, smothered in gravy, a side of green bean casserole, mac and cheese, and dressing also drowned in gravy. For my final dessert, I would like a large slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Please do not substitute it for the Maine blueberry crap. I can not stand blueberries.” John finished, and he turned his head away as if the thought of blueberries made him want to vomit. The chef rolled his eyes; he had been doing this a long time, and death rowers were always very particular about their final meals. He knew a man such as this one would not be any different. “ I forgot you’re not from Maine. You southerners and your apple pie. Alright, well your execution will be in two days. Everything will be prepared and set before you two hours prior to your execution. Any questions?” The chef asked

“No,” John said, smiling, imagining his final bite and how grand it would be. Hopefully the Food Network and crime network would do a collaboration on the subject, he thought. The chef waved for Dean to come escort John to his cell. They walked back, and John was in the best mood he had been in since they gave him the cell overlooking the Maine coast. The next two nights, John hardly slept; he tossed and turned, giggling to himself with excitement for his big day. He twirled his long, stringy hair during the day while he stared at the waves crashing against the cliff. He thought about the meal. Symbolic to him in so many ways. The only truly happy night of his god-forsaken childhood was the night his mother made him this meal. It was the night he was baptized in their Southern Baptist church. His father had promised his mother he would not drink. And he didn’t, well, not that much anyway. They sat as a family and had the meal together in peace. Then after, they all fell asleep in the living room while watching the Cowboys stomp the Eagles in a cold Sunday night game. On the big day, John woke up with a jolt. He had slept that night. He drifted off imagining that apple pie rolling down his throat, so sweet and warm. Dean told him they would take him to lunch around 11:30 a.m. and his execution would be around 1:30. John had skipped the past two meals in anticipation for his final supper. He did the same, skipping his breakfast that smelled like a foot and looked even worse. Finally, Dean came to his cell, banging the baton on the metal bars. “Hartley, it’s time for lunch,” he said

John shrieked in excitement. He literally jumped up and down for joy. Thirty-two people had to die for this moment to come to fruition, but oh what a beautiful moment for him. The walk felt like a million miles. They told him his meal would be in a small, quiet room by himself without anyone to bother him. He had requested it be in his cell, that way he could watch the wave crash into the cliffside, but that had been denied. That was fine, no big deal. Nothing could ruin this meal for him. Dean opened the door, and John was pretty disappointed with the room. It was a ten-by-ten cell with a metal table in the middle. There were no windows in the cell, and the lighting was terrible. Just a small light over the table. The door was solid, unlike his cell, so when they closed the door, it was dark except for the table. Dean uncuffed his hands but cuffed his ankles to the chair. The room was a disappointment, but it’s fine; nothing can ruin this for him, he thought. Dean walked out, and the door closed behind him. He sat there shaking in anticipation for a few minutes until finally the door opened. He waited for the smell of the fresh rolls to reach his nostrils. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Nothing had reached him yet, though. The footsteps approached, still without any smell. The footsteps stopped, and the plate made a sharp sound as it hit the table, but another sound of metal on metal accompanied it. They brought me a fork for the rolls; that’s odd, he thought. When he opened his eyes, panic filled his body. In front of him were not fresh rolls, nor chicken fried steak, or dressing, or anything he had requested. It was a small slice of pie. The pie looked very dry, and the filling in the middle was a dark blue. He quickly realized it was a noticeably unheated blueberry pie. There was no fork either. And next to the plate was a metal syringe.

There was a napkin on the table that had written in black the words “Bon Appètit, Courtesy of the State of Maine”.