Free Lunch

It's funny how some stories take on "a life of their own" as you start writing, diverging from your original plans, snaking its way around, breeding @ every fertile opportunity, leaving your original plans and ideas shattered and scattered like broken egg shells; a testament to new life going forward.

This one ended up becoming a gored-up retake on HC Andersen's "Little Claus @ Big Claus", and if you are touchy and sensitive, you probably want to stay clear of this one.

The lunch was always free here. But they didn't let just anybody in. You'd have to have earned your way in. And every single one of them had. Truly earned it. 

He picked up his tray and lined up. The dress code was strict here, and no exceptions were made. No matter what your name was. Up under the ceiling, in their towers in each corner, the guards were looking down on a sea of orange, most of whom were already sitting on their bench by the long tables. Each guard with his right hand on his right shoulder, should his Ruger be needed in a hurry. There was an eery calm, almost quiet, silence only broken by the sound of shuffelling feet, stemming from the lineup slowly making its way past the counter where it would come to a temporary stop, only to continue a few seconds later. Like a slow moving, monotomous train stopping briefly at a railway crossing, only to continue when visually ensured it was safe. And everything, every move, monitored by the four Ruger's in the towers.

After this morning's duties in the laundry room, John Little had been escorted back to his "Chateau" where he'd been killing time untill the guards had "invited him out for lunch". Like a chain gang of ducks, they'd been herded into the canteen, where it in a moment from now, would be his turn get his bowl of grub from Mr Big, who was on regular duty, dishing out the soup of the day. Mr Big had gotten his particular nickname for a reason, and Mr. Big didn't like small, skinny, nerdy looking guys with horn-rimmed glasses, like John Little.

Next up, he pushed his tray over and stopped in front of Mr. Big. For what was probably just a few seconds, but felt like an eternity, they just stood there, eyes locked at each other, without saying a word. Mr . Big looked in a foul mood, to which John Little's reaction was to push his glasses a little higher up on the bridge of his nose, with his index finger, without loosing eye contact.

"Well, well, well, well. Look who we got here", it came from the cooking side of the counter. "I'm shivering in my pants, just from looking at you. You are just sooo intimidating. Maybe I should make you my girlfriend, tonight"?

Mr. Big proceeded to slowly...very slowly...grab a bowl with his left hand, while still staring down John Little. The bowl came to a stop at the edge of the pot of boiling soup. Slowly, two ladles of maximum security facility, government quota grub was poured into the bowl and Mr. Big slowly stretched his hand with the bowl out to John Little. After a couple of seconds, John Little reached out for the bowl. But before he could reach it, Mr. Big pulled his arm back: "Wait", he said. "I got a special treat for you". Mr. Big cleared his throat and slowly bent his head down to John Little's bowl. Then he hacked up a big, chunky greeny and slowly sank it into the bowl. Spit, snot and all. It just dangled there, for a moment, before it finally let go and eased itself into the bowl. Then he proceeded to pass the bowl to the little nerdy looking guy in front of him. Slowly, a smile grew into and ear-to-ear grin: "Enjoy your lunch...my friend". John LIttle hadn't said a word all along, and slowly walked away with the bowl on his tray. That day he decided to skip lunch.

He went to bed early that night. His fold-down bed on the wall had hosted its' share of unpleasant personalities, but for the next 20 years - at least - it would he who'd be crashing on it. Next morning it was gym time, though the word "gym" would be a fairly wide stretch of the imagination. But at least it was a...garage...where he could do a bit of this and a bit of that, to stay in shape. All supervised, of course. There are plenty of "useful tools" in a garage like that. And then he was off on another lunch invitation. He'd managed to avoid Mr. Big's "invitation" to become his sweetheart, but being on his daytime duty - Mr. Big, he now had the questionable honor of his company again, under the same circumstances, on each side of the counter.

There was a little more...frost in the air...between them, today, as they locked eyes again. "I like how you did your hair today... honey", Mr. Big finally broke the silence between them. "Very pretty". After ladeling up his two scoops of soup, he proceeded to leave the bowl right infront of himself, out of reach from the other side of the counter. "I got an extra snack for you today. You should thank me", he said. "I picked it up from the garden, especially for you, honey". The garden was the jovial term for the courtyard the inmates ocasionally got to inhale a few breaths of fresh air from. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a huge, fat, live cockroach, dropped it into the soup and slowly pushed the bowl over to the little guy with the glasses.

John LIttle bent his head down slowly, took a good look at the 'roach desperately kicking to get out of the hot soup. He then proceeded to pick it up with right hand's thumb and index finger, turned it around a couple of time to have a good look at it. Then he looked straight into the eyes of Mr. Big with an iron stare, put the 'roach in his mouth, crunched it and swollowed it. "Protein"! That was the only word the little man said: "Protein"!

Mr. Big looked at him in disbelief, flabbergasted, when he walked away with his soup. He was still looking at him when he sat down and ate his soup.

That afternoon, John Little  requested access to the in-house library, limited as it was. Essentially just a small collection of donated books. Maybe a couple of hundred. His request was granted and he got an escort there. 15 minutes later, he was escorted back to his "Chateau" with a copy of Charles Darwin's "Origin of species" in hand. Keys rattling in the lock and the heavy door slamming behind him and that evening he spent on the bed, digging into the hardcore science of the real world.

The next 36 hrs the joint were in full lockdown mode; a drone delivery from the outside world had aparently gone wrong, somewhere in the sky above the garden and caused Mr. Big a trip to the infirmery due to a royal beating, after his preferred delivery routine ended up unravelling, in the hands of all the wrong people. After that, they threw him into solitary confinement with some serious recovering to do.

Just hours after the lockdown ended and "The loving spoonful" had taken care of Mr. Big, dressed in a spit hood, he was back behind the pot of boiling soup on his lunch duties, waiting venemously for John Little. Paranoia had told Mr. Big that John Little was to blame for everything. Everything! And he had saved a surprise for him, this time.

LIke a train slowly rolling into Hauptbahnhof, the little man again came to a halt in front of the big man. Not a word spoken untill Mr. Big broke the silence after the obligatory two ladles in the bowl: "There you go, little Mr Deathwish. Today your soup comes with our house sausage". Then be bent down, opened what sounded like a plastic under the counter, stood back up and dropped a substantial piece of feces into the soup.

For a full 8 seconds, that appeared to last forever, the little man just stood there, looking at the excrement floating in the soup. Then, within what appeared to be a fraction of a second, he was over the counter and on the back of Mr Big, looking like a large backpack on a badass sumo wrestler, left arm around his neck in a choke hold while dunking Mr Big's head into the boiling soup, holding it there until his own hand got a third degree burn. He grabbed a nearby fork and burried it deep into the back of Mr. Big's neck, breaking his upper cervical spine. Then the sharp pain as the bullet pierced his shoulder blade and the burning sensation of being alive on a bonfire, as he slumped onto the floor and a trickle of blood started making its way across it.

If there had any been any doubt about it. If there had any been any hope for anything else. He knew that from now on, he could be certain of two things: There was a new Mr. Big in town...and it was free lunch for the rest of his life.