Psycho, The Waitress

Harold knew as soon as she came back he would have to kill her. Kill or be killed, Harold knew. Better to be the killer than the killee, he agreed with himself. Sneak attack, always best strategy. He looked around the table for a weapon. His steak knife would have to do. He clutched it under the table waiting for the waitress to return.

He looked at his steak sandwich. It was poisoned for sure. It didn’t taste poisoned, which just made him more convinced that it was. Poisons could be very subtle, totally tasteless in some cases. Harold had seen how the waitress had smiled handing him his plate. The smile said: I’m going to kill you. Harold knew that smile cause he saw it in the mirror every morning, shaving.

He looked about the restaurant to find the location of his waitress. She was busy with another booth, three booths down. He looked back at his steak sandwich and thought maybe he should take another bite or two to make it look like he didn’t know it was  poisoned. Harold knew the key to a good surprise attack was the surprise.

He considered putting steak sauce on his steak sandwich, till he realized she had probably poisoned the steak sauce, too. In fact, it would be best to eat under the assumption that all the condiments had been poisoned. He thought it best just to put a couple squirts of steak sauce on his sandwich.

Harold could feel the eyes of the waitress monitoring him as she played the charade of tending to another table. Harold knew that all the people in the restaurant were actors and bad actors at that cause their job was to act as though what was happening wasn’t a prelude to a murder. What they didn’t know was their intended victim was in on it too.

The waitress was one booth away now. Harold clutched the steak knife, cutting into his sandwich to make it look like he wasn’t ready to stab her as soon as she got to the table. He brought the fork to his mouth knowing he was putting cyanide, or, pesticide, or some sort of icide inside him. Harold smiled, knowing he was immune to almost every thing but a knife to the chest.

He heard her finishing up with the booth next to his. He held the knife steady, in the middle of his sandwich. She scrawled down a note to herself to call her mother after work. Regina approached Harold’s table.

“How’s everything here?” she asked her customer.

“Fine, thanks,” Harold said, starting the knife back in motion, sawing through his sandwich.

“Can I get you anything more?”

“Could I get another coke?”

“Sure, you bet,” Regina walked away.

Harold sat cutting his steak sandwich into halves then quarters then eighths then sixteenths then thirty-seconds as he waited for his coke. He promised himself he would stab her after he had the sandwich carved into infinitieths.


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