In the early morning darkness,
before the sun can threaten to warm the cold kitchen floor, the murder box
threatens to blind those that seek to open its sealed doors. Light pours out
onto the bare feet of the one who is awake so early on a chilly winter morning.
There is a lunch to be made, and the residents of the murder box shudder with
fear as the contents of the murder box are examined. The box chills its victims
by trapping them in the frigid cold. The silent screams of a deceased chicken
shriek for the warmth and comfort of a luscious green pasture. Instead its
frozen then thawed breasts stiffly rest on the hard, transparent plastic shelf
at eye level.
Somewhere
on a dairy farm, a small calf calls out for the milk that is now contained in
an opaque plastic jug squished in between the ketchup and a half empty jar of
olives. Those small green fruits will never again enjoy the gentle warming rays
of the Tuscan sun.
The
right door of the murder box remains agape as the left door is pried open. The
severed stick of churned cream catches a quick glimpse of the bag of frozen
green seeds who have been stripped from their slender pods and whose tiny round bodies
have fused together in their thin plastic sack.
An
icy loaf of baked flour and yeast emerges from the murder box, previously
dismembered into sixteen even slices by a sharp metal blade. The rock hard loaf
smacks against the counter as the solid slices huddle together like sardines.
The muffled whimpering of a mutilated turkey crescendo as two slices of turkey
breast are peeled out of the package and placed on top of a shivering slice of
bread.
A
square of coagulated milk protein is slapped on top of the cold turkey slices.
They both cringe after such a slimy and informal introduction. Mustard seeds
ooze out onto a second slice of bread and are hastily smothered by the careless
caress of a dull knife. The two bread slices are joined and the sandwich is
soon enclosed in a plastic container where it will slowly suffocate as the
decomposition process rapidly hastens for a few hours.
The
plastic sandwich coffin is crammed into the large zippered compartment of a
small, black bag. A body bag perhaps? The bag is lifted off the ground and
contents shift as the sandwich coffin slides deeper into the dark confines of
the body bag. After a few moments of turbulence, the defeated sandwich notices
a more rhythmic bouncing pattern. The body bag is being carried.
After what seems like an eternity, the bag
shifts again, is suddenly torn open, and blinding light floods the bag and
penetrates the plastic container. The sandwich squints as it tries to make out
its surroundings. Having thawed a bit since the long walk, the bread slices
snuggle its turkey and cheese acquaintances. After enduring this horrific
experience, they have formed a bond that can only be broken by the hungry jaws
of a ravenous human at lunchtime. They know what is coming. They have seen the
tall figure with the overgrown beard that towers over them, leaving the murder
box door wide open. He stabs his pot of rice and beans with a fork, a starving
look glistening in his unforgiving eyes. Once the clock strikes noon, the
doomed sandwich will meet a fate similar to that pot of rice and beans. The
bread, turkey, cheese and mustard will all be devoured bite by delicious,
savory bite.
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