Pad Bye

The hardest thing about death row is deciding what your last meal should me. Currently, I was tossing up between a chicken Pad Thai, a spicy vindaloo or a good old Margherita pizza. And that was just the main meal. I wasn’t even thinking about desert yet, even though my stomach obviously was, growling for something reminiscent of chocolate.

My guard, also moonlighting as my waiter on this particularly fateful day, slammed his truncheon down next to my chained hands, causing me to drop the pen and paper I had.

“Bert, if you don’t hurry up and decide, there will be no last meal!” he shouted, spit flying from the recesses of his mouth, showering me in my orange jumpsuit.

“Jerry, mate,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender, “It’s a tough choice. Surely you, of all people, could understand.” I couldn’t resist that one last shit stir at his gut, parading itself in front of me at eye level.

I felt the truncheon crack across my shaven head before I heard the sickening crack of metal against bone.

Reeling from the pain, I gave in, “Alright, alright, I’ll have Pad Thai and a chocolate mousse!” I dabbed the blood that was seeping from the impact mark. Jerry nodded, turned and walked off to deliver my request. Despite my situation, laughter managed to bubble up and escape my mouth, filling the concrete recreation room with my hysterics.

Personally, I was disappointed with the quality of Pad Thai. The chocolate mousse was pretty damn good, but the chicken was overcooked, the bean sprouts dominated the dish, and the quartered lemon they’d given me was more dehydrated than a 1000 year old mummy.

I complained, of course, but there was no effort made to rectify any of the meals’ shortcomings.

Now I was being marched to my death.

Despite my predicament, I was still incredibly pissed off at the poor quality of my meal. It’s really not that hard to get a Pad Thai right. Any half decent Thai restaurant worth its weight should be able to produce a worthy Pad Thai.

I voiced my opinions to the two guards currently strapping me into the execution chair. They didn’t speak to me, only continued to insert the needles into my pale, veiny arms.

I couldn’t believe that no one seemed to care. It was an imperative foundation stone in Thai cooking. And they’d conveniently fucked it up.

“Mr Bert Saunders, you are being sentenced to death today for the murders of Donald Blotworth, James McInroy and Stacey Hinsworth. Do you have any last words?” The wardan’s voice sounded over the speakers somewhere above me.

“Yeah! Your Pad Thai was shit!” I replied, seething in my bonds.

“Mr Saunders, do you have any last words for the atrocities you’ve committed!” the wardan’s voice boomed.

I rolled my eyes. “Look, I thought I had the right people. Two men and one woman. They all had shaky alibis and the motive. But hey,” I tried to shrug, “I’ll have better luck next time, I hope.”

The last thing I heard was the first plunger dropping – the sodium thiopental. My eyes began to droop, and with my last store of strength I rolled my head to glance at the potassium chloride that would end this life, before I saw nothing but black.

Digging my way out of my grave this time was probably harder than the first time. I resolved that they must have packed the dirt harder than the last time, because every scoop I made seemed to be futile. Sweating, oxygen levels low, my final push to the surface proved to be it – as I broke out of ground and into the cool night air with a gasp.

Immortality does have its inconveniences.

After sufficiently collecting myself and my stray thoughts, I pulled my torso out. The muck and filth covered my body, clinging to my skin and seeping into my pores.

Brushing it off proved futile, so I set about repacking the earth in the hole I left out of my grave. Ten minutes later, I scraped the last of the soil over.

By the light of the moon, I found the small asphalt road leading out of the cemetery. Following it around the bounds of the cemetery, I eventually came to the exit. I was careful to wait for the traffic to subside before I made my break. Everyone had their smartphones these days – everyone was always recording something. The last thousand years had been easier in terms of resurrecting oneself. I resolved to be more careful in the future.

My stomach growled; my last last meal obviously already forgotten. No matter, I’d find some food.

Moving up the dark street, I stole into some yards to steal some fresh clothes and to use the sprinkler systems to wash the muck from my body. Soon enough, I looked as good as new, and I continued on my way.

Eventually, I reached a small shopping strip on the main road. A few of the smaller joints were closed, but a flickering neon sign up ahead had me salivating immediately.

‘Thai Blossom’

Without even sparing a thought to my lack of funds, I opened the door to the aroma of South East Asia and made my way over to a table.

The waitress was nothing if not efficient.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, eyes boring into me.

“Chicken Pad Thai,” I replied, without hesitation.

She nodded, wrote down my order, and left to submit it to the kitchen.

The mouth put on the waterworks as I say and waited. The only other people in the restaurant were a couple in the back corner, oblivious to naught but themselves and their massaman curry.

And there it was. Sailing over to me , grasped in the waitress’s outstretched hand.

The plate was laid before me. Steaming. Glistening. This was the real deal.

Forgoing chopsticks, I dug straight in with a fork, piercing a piece of chicken, wrapping it in the noodles, the crumbled cashews, the bean sprouts, and closed my mouth around it.

Now that was a Pad Thai.

I demolished one plate, before calling the waitress back to ask for another.

“You want another?” she said, a look of surprise planted on her tired face.

“Yep,” I grinned, keenly aware of the flecks of food clinging to my cheeks, “It’s to die for.”

Thanks for reading, please recommend the story if you liked it and/or follow the publication for more stories.

I was inspired to write this story from this writing prompt.