An order spun the wheel around. It read, “John Tremor 2464505, Serial Murder: 1 large bucket of dark meat chicken, extra crispy breaded potato wedges, and a big ol apple pie, thanks.” It was nice they let the fellas who come around here write their own orders. They wouldn’t want anything to be lost in translation. Not like we would the guards couldn’t understand what a bucket of chicken is, I swear half the inmates want the same exact thing. Not that I could fault them, we make some of the best chicken in the country.

A dozen or so white clad short order cooks were hustling about friers and griddles as smoke and steam billowed up into the air. The smell of peanut oil and hamburgers and sizzling chicken wafted anywhere it could. To many the smell could be quite appetizing but it only made me feel sick. It was near the end of my shift and I was dreading the massive pile of dishes that built up. Jay, my manager, had told me that due to some budget related things (he would never specify on this type of stuff) we had to limit who was staying past order hours. Because I was the greenest they made me volunteer to do dishes for the rest of the month.

I don't know why we bothered with keeping shit clean down here. The floor was sticky like it was the aftermath of an orgy and the dirt and grime that built up into every nook and cranny was like something that would come out of the sewer in a horror movie. I guess it was because dirty pans and pots would affect the taste of our food.

Best I could hope for is some kind of evacuation event like a prisoner going apeshit over a wrong order. Surprisingly these riots were uncommon considering the volume of people coming through. Two to three hundred new faces would come through every day, though new is overselling it because everyone was new. They would come in in shackles but leave in a dumpster with the rest of the day’s queue. No reason to be friendly, it’s not like we had to worry about repeat customers.

We did have to be conscious of the quality of the food. Most of the breakouts happened because some rookie fry cook fucked up one of their orders. We are lenient on a lot of things in the kitchen, health and safety standards mainly, but we were proud of the food we cooked and wanted our patrons to be satisfied before heading off into the great unknown.

The day’s bowls and pots and pans and old fry grease was looking over me like It was about to turn me out. It was a bit slower today so I decided to get cracking. The rubber gloves were wet on the inside and felt like I was reaching into a muddy hole. It was much preferable to the would be slop water in the sink. I tuned out the firing squads’ machine gun like rallies with the sound of Boz Scaggs.

Suddenly the shots stopped. My ears pricked up and so did everyone else’s. It was too early for the executioners to turn in for the day. Something bad had happened. Alarms started blaring and the new found relief and mild celebration of going home early had set in among the staff.

---


The next day was back to normal. Typical chit chatter among the staff over how they're doing and what's going on and all that. I don't normally listen nor interject into this small talk but I heard something interesting.

"Do you know what they do with the bodies when they shoot 'em?" said one guy, a cook dressed for a wag nicer wing than me, to one of my wing's frycooks.

"I think they just dump them out back into the trash. City picks them up like it's no big deal," my guy says to the other.

A chick pipes in, probably around 20, blonde, in rubber boots and a ball cap, a janitor most likely, "They drag ‘em into the back to a surgeon ward or something."

"A surgeon ward? Ain't that against the doctor oath thing? The hippocampus something or other," my frycook asks with the blonde correcting him.

"Yeah I dunno. I only get peeks at it, it's one of the only spots they tell me not to mop."

"Oh so they tell you to mop up the kitchens too? You do a shitty job of it." Master chef's voices faded away along with the other two.

---

I arrived at my post and issues were already coming my way. Minor screw ups in orders that I had no part in becoming my problem, people spilling and dropping food on the floor needing replacements, cooks dropping and spilling food on the floor that needed to be cleaned up right this second. A rotten way to start my next 8 hours. A hand tapped my shoulder.

“Hey, we got a prisoner out front who wanted to pay his compliments to the chef,” I turned around, seeing Jay’s rotting teeth beaming at me.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

He shrugged, “Dunno.” As I started to walk out he joyously exclaimed, “Hey... it’s the guy in the orange suit!” and laughed his stupid laugh as I shot him a look. Fat fuck only has one joke.

I approached the man at the counter. He was in his aforementioned orange jumpsuit, balding with a scraggly beard. Large in stature and posture when behind but he had a kind face, unique given his situation. Like a brunette Santa Clause. I took a peek at his meal ticket. “Mike Spalding, 2464705, 14 counts of rape, 12 counts of sexual assault, 46 counts of child molestation, 1 murder: BLT on sourdough with turkey, large order of heavily salted fries, large coke, please.” How polite.

He was the first to speak, “Are you the guy who made my sandwich?”
“Yeah, why?” I was nervous now.

He squirmed slightly in what I could assume was excitement, his shackles jingling, “I have got to say that was the best darn sandwich I have ever had the pleasure to eat!”

“Well that’s good, uh, thank you,” I nodded. He extended a hand. I looked at the guard for his approval, he wasn’t paying attention. Why not, I thought and shook it. He squished my hand like a vice grip. I was at a loss for words. I was stammering trying to ask for any kind of help. He grew a sinister grin.

“You remind me of Johnny in ‘93, he was the cutest boy I have ever seen.” He eyed me up and down, “how about I take you for a spin, make your hole a last meal?” At this point the guards were on him like stink on shit. He was struggling to break free, his hand still crushing mine. Suddenly gunshots echoed throughout the hallway.

He showed a pained expression, one of shock and anguish, blood streaming from both sides of his head. His body sank. His grip didn’t loosen until after he hit the ground.

---