The ultimate death row meal
A strategic masterclass
My death row meal is better than yours.
But tastes like shit.
Actual shit.
Yeah - I'm operating on a DIFFERENT LEVEL.
Hear me out…
Context is Everything
If I'm eating a death row meal, I've been a particularly naughty boy.
In the US, the requirements for getting your brains fried are as follows:
Aggravated murder (e.g. torture, multiple victims, or killing a cop)
Felony murder (a killing committed during another serious crime like armed robbery or rape)
Espionage
Treason
Large-scale drug trafficking (legend alert!)
Terrorism resulting in death
Killing a child (in some states)
I'd also have to veer on the severe side of those crimes to warrant ‘the chair’. You know, really go for it. Maybe tick off multiple ones at once, or try to complete the entire bingo card, within 24 hours.
So when people ask, "What's your death row meal?", it’s implying we’re monsters. That's the hypothetical headspace we should be in. Let us not forget that.
Only If They Watch
My final meal comes with a crucial condition.
(more of a grovelling request actually, given the circumstances.)
I'd insist the victim's family watch me eat it, just before the switch is thrown.
I'd write to the prison governor to get it approved. To help my case, I'd promise to apologise BIG TIME once I've finished chowing down. This would offer some closure after my brutal, brutal crimes.
Once that's greenlit, it's time.
My Dinner Is Served
I stride into the last room I'll ever see.
There's the electric chair (I didn't fancy the injection), and a small table for my final munch.
The victim's family are behind a reinforced glass window, watching with anticipation, holding each other for comfort. None of this will be easy for them, or me.
I sit with poise.
My chosen dish is brought in.
It's not a fancy steak.
Not my favourite pizza (Voodoo Rays).
Not even a KFC.
It's a very special dish.
For dramatic effect, my food is brought in under a silver cloche, like they do at posh restaurants, and in movies.
The prison guard lifts it to reveal:
A poo croissant.
As in, an opened croissant - with a human turd laid neatly inside. Obviously.
(stay with me…)
I don't flinch when it arrives.
If anything, I salivate.
The families look disturbed, which I think is a TOTAL double standard given they're happy watching a man get electrocuted to death. Hypocrites! The lot of them.
I pick up my knife and fork and eat the turd croissant.
I savour every mouthful in a calm and dignified manner. Think more Michelin-star tasting menu, than a Bushtucker Trial.
It's a delicacy.
One of the most delicious things I've ever tasted.
On the other side of the glass, the viewing room looks on.
It consists of:
Victims' family - 7 people
My family - 3 people (proud af)
Media/press - 3
Legal observers - 2
Prison officials - 2
Security staff - 3
Of the 20 people, 100% are horrified. A few vomit. Again, massive double standards here!!!
I gently wipe my mouth with a napkin, totally content.
I stand, look through the glass, and deliver my final 'apology' insanely sarcastically, as per Father Jack:
Then I hop in the ol' electric chair and proceed to die.
Months Later
I bet the sight hasn't left their minds. Especially the first part when I had dinner.
Most will write it off as a symptom of my general depravity. Given the crimes, it made sense.
But I only need one person who can't stop thinking about it.
Why did he choose that?
Why did he enjoy it so much?
Has he… actually discovered something delicious?
Years pass.
The thought constantly plays on their mind, nagging them, tormenting them.
The solution? Settle the debate - first hand.
On a (very) slow weekend - curiosity finally wins, and so do I.
They try a poo croissant for themselves.
And the second they bite down, I appear as a ghost.
"Gotcha!".
🤣👌🏻