In Which You Lose Your Sub and It Kills You

Losing a sub is not going to kill me, you scoff.

Oh, but what if it did? After all, there are many ways to die of sub-deprivation.

For example:

What if you starve?

Or die of shock?

What if you meet a hungry bear, and having no sandwich to give it, are yourself eaten?

What if you get so hungry you eat some poisoned mushrooms?

What if your mom kills you for sharing?

Yeah, yeah, I know ‘what mom ever did that?’

But what if you die of boredom?

You know, the kind that comes from a cruel author listing off 101 ways to die of sub-deprivation.

Let me see

.

.

.

Though, if you would rather not endure that form of torture

I have a solution to free you from the agony.

It’s painless

Next-to-effortless

And you get to keep your sub.

All you have to do is

Close

The

Book.

Simple as that!

No, seriously, you can!

You should!

You know you should . . .

Because that sub (and your mom, for that matter) are not going to forgive you for sharing it with a stranger.

A stranger you’ve never met

Who has also managed to prove himself both cruel and annoying.

Just imagine the glee he will show in eating your sandwich!

How he’ll talk about it

Praise it

Relish it

Eat

Every

Last

Crumb

Of

It.

Still think you should keep reading?

I wouldn’t, if I were you.

.

.

.

Of course, we know who’s the smarter one.

Fine, as you wish!

Lose your sub and die of it, for all I care!

You care? You interject.

Don’t flatter yourself.

~ ~ ~

With the fiercest, stubbornest scowl you can muster (you know, like the kind on your sub) you plunk the 12-inch sub on a park bench and seating yourself beside it, attempt to contemplate anything but your bench-fellow.

It isn’t easy.

So, ummm, those flowers look nice, you think to yourself as you fix your gaze on a spread of red tulips, Nice and rich red, like . . . ummmm . . . an apple, or a – a fire-truck, or a slice of tomato with ketchup on it . . . Ugh, you grimace and look away. OK, time to think of something else.

You glance at your watch: 12:04. Any minute now you will meet your author.

Meet your author.

Meet your author.

Meat your author.

Meat your . . .

Standing abruptly you begin to pace.

Nice try, you think, shoving all those delightful slices of juicy, perfectly cured meat from your mind.

So I like being cheesy?

Cheese, you mentally groan.

Yeah, I mayo may not be making this hard.

Care to ketchup with my train of thought?

But, no more, lettuce be glad-

STOP! You exclaim, glaring in the general direction of nowhere.

Fine, fine, I suppose I better stop peppering you anyway.

.

.

.

But there’s no need to be so salty.

Quit it!

Forgive me if I just can’t undersandwich ‘it’ you mean-

(Remember, you can always stop reading.

Why bear the painful subjugation when you know it can get

So

Much

Worse?

After all

.

.

.

I am pretty saucy)

“Just show up already,” you whisper, glancing around desperately.

12:05

So much for being on time . . .

“Thank you,” a low voice says, so close to your ear that you jump.

And whirling round, you see him.

Ehem – me.

“Uh,” you gape as a black hand reaches down and picks up your sub.

“So intelligent,” the voice says again.

Weird thing is, you can’t seem to put the voice with the form.

If ‘form’ is the right word for it.

The man is tall and thin, and while he seems to be wearing a hoodie, jeans and tennis-shoes, you can’t really separate them from the rest of him. Everything about him is black. Not like the African black, which is really just a deep shade of brown.

Like midnight black.

Like the kind of black you see in the depths of a cave . . .

Or in space.

As if he were more of a 3-D shadow, or a living lack of light.

And no matter how hard you look, you can’t see his face.

“Why?” the voice murmurs as the black figure’s head turns in your direction.

You nod, slowly.

“I already told you,” he says.

And you remember.

“Oh,” you finally squeak, “You’re dead.”

“Score one for stating the obvious,” he sneers, tucking your sub beneath his hoodie and zipping it up again. You then realize that you can’t hear the zipper any more than you could hear the sub wrapper when he picked it up.

The thought makes you shiver.

OK, this author is seriously creepy.

“May I remind you that you didn’t want to meet me?” he says, “And now I believe we’ve completed our transaction.”

After which statement, he turns, and walks away.

“Whoa, hold on!” you exclaim, jumping to your feet and setting off in pursuit, “We have NOT completed the ‘transaction’.”

“Haven’t we?” he says, never looking back, “We have met, I have your sandwich, and now I must go.”

“Go where?” you question, struggling to keep up. Why couldn’t your author have had shorter legs?

“To a place,” he replies.

“That is?”

“None of your business.”

“OK, never mind,” you huff, “But nine sentences is hardly worth a whole sub.”

“Ten,” he corrects, “And this makes twelve – so one sentence for every inch of sandwich. A real bargain, if you ask me.”

“That’s what I keep doing,” you growl, “And all you do is dodge.”

“Never was good at catching things.”

“You could at least try!”

“Why?”

“Because – because . . . oh forget it.”

“Because I don’t really want to be writing this story?”

“No,” you mutter, and for a moment, there is silence. At last, “Because I really care.”