I often hear people talk about what they would choose as their “Death Row” meal. For most people it’s something extravagant like boiled lobster with melted butter for dipping, a chilled glass of champagne, and a hot fudge sundae for dessert. Call me crazy, but I would keep it simple. My “Death Row” meal would be a peanut butter sandwich and a cold glass of milk.
I would sit back and take a big bite of my sandwich, thinking about my situation. I would probably be wrongfully accused for the crime I was about to be executed for, but hey, that’s life. I would laugh at the absurdity of that thought, and then I would start to cough because guess what was inside my sandwich. A key.
I would look down to see a note next to my glass of milk. “DON’T DRINK. ACID.” I could use the acid to melt through the bars! But I also have that key. I’d probably just use the key. I would leave the acid behind, kind of confused about that one, but excited none the less.
As I make my way down the cell block, punching out each guard I encounter, I use the key to open every door I come to. I would probably say something like, “Man, what a key,” because at this point, it has seriously helped me out a lot.
As I’m about to walk out the front door, I pass the room where they put all the confiscated stuff. I grab a couple swollen burlap sacks with dollar signs on them, and continue on my way. Outside, I’m halfway over the fence when I hear a soft, female voice.
“Not so fast,” she says, her sentence punctuated with the click of a loaded pistol. I drop to the ground and turn around slowly, my hands held high. She’s young, blonde, and startlingly beautiful. I consider punching her out, but it’s against my morals to hit a woman. She stands close to me, and I feel her hot breath on my neck.
“Look,” I say, “I can give you some money…” She cuts me off.
“I don’t want any money. I’m just looking to nail two bellies together.”
“I don’t understand…”
“I want you to park your yacht in hair harbor.” I stare at her, perplexed. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I W-A-N-T T-O D-O T-H-E W-I-L-D T-H-A-N-G.”
After a rigorous but rewarding session of lovemaking, I’m up over the fence and inside a Mercedes Benz that was foolishly left idling by the prison gates. As I drive toward the Mexican border, I stop at a Pizza Hut, because I’m a little hungry and I’m a sucker for the Pepperoni Lover’s® Pan Pizza. You can have your filet mignon and your creme brûlée, and maybe it means I’m boring, but I prefer the simple things.