Whisper Meadows woke to the sweet smell of fried ham and promptly vomited.
"Danny!" she shouted through a mouth of acid and bile. "What the hell? Are you really cooking ham?" She and Danny had been in an open relationship for over three years and he knew damn well that she didn't allow animal flesh or byproduct in their apartment.
But she wasn't in their apartment.
She was on a cot in a cell surrounded by bars on two of its four sides, the other two sides thick, graffitied concrete. A single bulb hung over a table and chair.
On the table was a ham sandwich on a ceramic plate.
Whisper began to scream.
A click. The sound of feedback. A voice spoke to her.
"Whisper." The voice was distorted just like those of protected witnesses on the crime shows Whisper's father had made her watch when she lived back home. "Such an ironic name for someone so loud."
"Why the hell is there a ham sandwich in here with me?" Whisper screamed. "Get it away from me!"
"You—" The voice went silent for a second and then came back, the vicious edge turned into confusion. "You want me to get rid of the sandwich?"
"Yes! God!" Whisper sobbed. "I'm a vegan. Animal flesh makes me physically ill!"
Another pause.
"Do—do you know that you're chained to the wall?"
Whisper looked down at her ankle and saw that she was, in fact, chained to the wall.
"Are you going to get rid of the sandwich or not?" she called out.
"You aren't going to eat it?"
"I'm not touching that murder sandwich. No way."
Silence.
"I said," Whisper shouted through her cupped hands, "Get that thing away from me!"
"So you don't eat meat?" the distorted voice said. "No meat at all?"
"Are you deaf? I said I was a vegan. Nothing's changed in the three seconds since I told you!"
"What about fish?" the voice asked.
"Oh, gee," Whisper said, slapping a palm against her forehead. "Is fish a plant? A lot's changed since I was in SEVENTH GRADE BIOLOGY!"
Then the speakers clicked off and the room was silent once more.
"Oh my god..." Whisper moaned. "Oooohhhhh myyyy gawwd! I can't breathe...you're literally keeping me from breathing!" She clapped a hand over her nose and mouth. She looked around the cell and grabbed a blanket off the cot, then stood up and walked as close to the table as she could bear.
"Oh god..." The smell of the ham was beginning to seep through her fingers. She could feel her stomach beginning to churn as she began to swing the blanket back and forth, releasing it just as it arced out. It landed on the sandwich, covering it, and she whooped in victory.
"Now get it out of here!" she shouted.
"No," the voice said.
"Why not?" Whisper whined.
"Because you're a rude person."
Whisper laughed. "I'm rude? You're the one who captured me and put me in this hellhole with a murder sandwich."
"Why are you calling it that?" the voice asked.
"Calling it what?" Whisper asked.
"A 'murder sandwich'. It's a ham sandwich."
"Why are you calling it ham?" Whisper shot back. "It didn't stop being a pig when you killed it. It's a pig sandwich. A pig impregnated against its will. Injected. Caged. Trapped. Slaughtered. Murdered!"
She had worked herself up into a foaming frenzy. She hadn't been this worked up since the Annul Animal Husbandry march.
The voice remained silent.
"Run out of ignorant questions?" she spat.
No answer.
"That's good!" she shouted. "I am a worthy woman. Just because that scares you doesn't mean you can question my choices, you backwoods, MAGA bastard."
A door screeched open on a track, then squawked shut.
The fat man who now stood in front of the cage wore a rubber pug mask.
“That's offensive,” Whisper stated.
"Offensive how?"
"You don't see animals wearing human masks."
"Why would they...What..." The stranger was dumbstruck.
"Get this sandwich out of here," Whisper said. "I literally can't breathe with it in here."
Pug Head looked at her with his head cocked to the side.
"What are you waiting for?" Whisper shrieked.
Pug Head jumped, unlocked the door, and removed the ham sandwich.
"She says she can't breathe with it in there," Albie said, putting the plate on the control room table.
"What a bitch," Donald said.
"Well, what was I supposed to do?" Albie asked, yanking the pug mask off his head.
"Tell the spoiled brat to suck it up. We're not a Burger King. She can't have it her way this time."
"I don't think a Burger King would suit her any better," Albie said. He looked at the sandwich longingly; save for a few stray blanket threads stuck to it, it was still perfectly good.
"Don't even think about it," Donald said, leaning back in his chair and passing a bag of apple chips to Albie. "Doctor's orders."
Albie sat at the monitors with a sigh and plunged his hand into the bag.
"Vegan," Donald said. "The brat's family is loaded and she decides to eat plants her whole life. So many people in the world don't have access to meat–"
"Or aren't allowed to eat it," Albie said miserably.
"–and she flat out refuses. Probably eats tofu...you two should talk recipes," Donald mocked.
"Tofu's expensive," Albie said. "And for something so bland..." He rubbed his finger over the call button for a moment and then pressed it.
"Do you eat tofu?" he asked into the microphone.
On the monitor, Whisper's head lolled back as she rolled her eyes.
"Yeaausss!" she groaned.
"How?" Albie asked.
"With my fucking mouth, you idiot."
"Wow," Donald said.
I know! Albie mouthed. Then he turned back to the intercom. "No, I mean how can you stand it? It's so bland."
"Um, I don't know," Whisper said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "How do you stand eating handfuls of flour? It's so bland!"
"Handfuls of—" Albie threw his hand in the air, giving up.
"Is ten mil enough?" Donald asked. "Really, I ask you. Is it enough to keep this nasty cow alive?"
"Maybe she's just lashing out," Albie said.
"I can understand 'lashing out',” Donald said. "She's chained up. She doesn't know where she is. I get that. But that's not why she's lashing out. She's lashing out because you tried to serve her a ham sandwich."
"A nice ham sandwich," Albie said, eyeing it once more.
"A very nice ham sandwich," Donald agreed. "From a damn fine cook. I don't care if you're the Queen of England, if I give you something to eat and you talk to me like that..."
"And isn't that how we got into this mess in the first place?" Albie asked. "Because you couldn't control your temper?"
"No!" Donald said, sitting up and sticking his finger in Albie's face. "No! We are in this mess because you had your father get me a job in his restaurant after I told you I wasn't good with people."
"You shoved a Monte Cristo down a woman's throat," Albie said.
"She said it was too dry!" Donald snapped. "Your sandwiches are freaking ambrosia compared to what that fat cow ate on a daily basis. She should have—"
"And I appreciate that," Albie said, meaning it. No one had ever stood up for him the way Donald did. It's what he loved about him. "But now we are trying it your way, alright? And you have to keep a cool head or else you might—" he paused, remembering their couples therapy, "—we might mess this up."
Albie took Donald's hand and they did their breathing exercises. When they had finished, Albie gave Donald a gentle kiss.
"Hey!" Whisper's voice shouted through the speakers. "Hey! I'm starving in here!"
"I hate her," Donald said, turning back to his computer. "I hate her, Albie, I really do."
"Should I make her something else to eat?" Albie asked.
"No," Donald said, "If she wants to eat, she will eat the sandwich. Her father will call to confirm the drop and then we'll get her out of here. She can compromise her morals for another few hours."
"Hey! Asshole!" Whisper's voice screeched.
Albie thumbed the button and spoke.
"I made you a perfectly good sandwich. Free range ham, homemade bread, homemade provolone, brown mustard, and a boatload of love. You can eat my sandwich or you can starve. Make your choice."
"That's more like it," Donald laughed.
"Right?" Albie said.
Whisper began to howl like a wounded animal. Albie looked back to the screen and cried out. The girl was bashing her head against the concrete wall.
"Jesus!" Albie screamed. He pressed the button. "Stop that right now!"
"No!" Whisper screamed. "Not until you bring me gluten-free avocado toast." She slammed her head against the wall again.
"Gluten-free?" Albie looked helplessly at Donald.
"That stupid, spoiled brat," Donald hissed.
Then the burner phone rang.
"Shit," Donald said. "Go stop her!"
"How do I—?"
Donald grabbed the sandwich and slapped it into Albie's hand. "Tell her to cut it out or you'll shove that sandwich down her throat." He put one of the voice distorters to his mouth and answered the phone as Albie ran out of the room.
"I believe I have made myself perfectly clear," Mr. Meadows said. "I'm not giving you a damn penny for her."
Donald needed to do his breathing exercises and he needed to do them now. He and his therapist had figured out that when his ears burned like they were doing now, he was close to losing his temper.
"And that," she had said, with her plump, happy face, "isn't good for anyone."
But he couldn't count to ten right now. Hell, he couldn't even count to two: Mr. Meadows would hang up on him and the whole plan would be ruined.
"I don't think you understand, Mr. Meadows—" he began.
"No," Meadows interrupted. "I don't think you understand, bucko. I sent her to college a Young Republican and she came back a bisexual vegan named Whisper. She cost me a Senate race. She put her mother into an early grave. The little witch will do anything just to spite you and I am glad to be rid of her."
There was a click on the other line.
"Hello? Hello?"
Donald threw the burner phone against the wall. His ears burned as he grabbed one of the monitors and threw it to the floor. He kicked it for good measure, breaking two of his toes. Screaming, he grabbed the sandwich plate and smashed it against the wall.
"I am NOT eating your disgusting sandwich. Bring it near me and I will throttle you with this chain!"
Donald looked at the other monitor.
Whisper had managed to cut a nice gash across her forehead. Her bared teeth stood out bright against her bloodstained face. Albie walked into the cage, his stupid pug mask looking up at one of the cameras. When he got near enough she kicked him in the crotch.
Albie dropped the sandwich.
Whisper lunged at him. She wrapped her chain around his throat and began to strangle him.
Donald heard blood pulsing in his ears.
"Ungrateful..." Donald hissed through gritted teeth. "Spoiled...spiteful...little..."
He roared in agony as he put weight on his broken toes, bent down, and swiped up a shard of broken plate and began to hop down the hall toward Albie.
When he entered the cage, Whisper screamed, released Albie, and backed away.
"There are two of you?" she shouted.
"Donald," Albie coughed. "I'm sorry, she—"
Donald pushed past Albie, scooped up the sandwich and stalked toward Whisper.
"Men!" Whisper shouted. "You just hate it when a woman is stronger than—"
"Shut. Up!" Donald shouted. "Shut up! Shut! Up!"
Whisper's mouth puckered and her eyes flashed with white hot rage.
"You have three choices, you spiteful little witch. Eat the sandwich. Starve. Slit your wrists. Your choice." Donald dropped the broken piece of plate onto the cot and the sandwich on the floor. The ham—now cold with congealed cheese on top—slid out from between the mustardy bread.
"Donald..." Albie said.
"Albie, shut up and get back to the control room now!"
"DONALD!" Albie screamed.
Donald turned, certain he would see the piece of ceramic plate heading toward his eye. Sure that all the pressure of the world would explode with his ruptured eyeball, he almost welcomed it.
Instead, he saw Whisper sit on the edge of the cot, put the blanket in her mouth, bit down, and put the shard of plate against her chained ankle.
"Oh," Donald said.
Then Whisper sawed into her flesh.
Albie began to scream, the pug mask still half over his head, clutching at his chest. Donald stepped onto his bad foot and fell to the floor, looking up at Whisper in sheer amazement. She looked right back at him, her eyes filled with tears, yet unflinching. Fillets of flesh folded over her foot, exposing the pale bone beneath.
She tried to saw through it, the sound of silverware on china filling the room, making Donald want to vomit.
"Donald...Donald," Albie said. The weakness in his voice shook Donald out of his shock. He looked around and saw that Albie was clutching at the side of his throat, eyes wide. Donald crawled to Albie and cradled him.
Whisper, still looking directly into Donald's eyes, slid off the cot and into the pool of her own blood, crawled toward the nearest set of bars, and slid her mangled foot between them.
"No..." Albie wheezed.
"No..." Donald whispered.
Whisper nodded.
A sickening crack.
An ear-splitting scream.
Whisper was free.
Albie's considerable weight fell on top of Donald, pinning him to the floor. Albie's wide eyes stared down at him, through the pug mask. He didn't make a sound.
"Albie?" Donald tried pushing him off, but all his energy had been sapped by what he had just witnessed. The image of the bone snapping like a twig played over and over again in his mind. "Albie, she's getting away. She's—"
At some point, Whisper had tied the blanket around her leg, and was now crawling across the threshold of the cage.
"Albie, get up! She's—"
Panic gripped Donald's stomach.
"Please!" he cried out. "Please, call an ambulance. He's had a heart attack. He's—"
She turned to look back at him and, using her good leg, slammed the cage door shut.
The lock clicked.
"Enjoy your damn sandwich," Whisper said.
It was quite impressive, actually. Her father had been right; through sheer spite, she was holding back any cry of agony, any sign of weakness. She crawled away, leaving a trail of blood, her captors, and the murder sandwich behind her.
Donald rested his head on the cold, blood-drenched floor and stared at the deconstructed ham sandwich and wondered how long he could make it last.