The man popped open the trunk of his vintage Chevrolet Corvair, a car his grandfather had left to him ten years ago after he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. The man wanted to feel special, like his grandfather had left his precious car to him because of the special bond they shared. The truth was, the man’s father hadn’t wanted it, and given the man was one of only two grandchildren, the decision wasn’t a hard one to make. Once, the man’s father had even joked about his dad flipping a coin to decide which of his two grandkids would get the car, but since his grandfather was dead now, it was hard to know whether his father had been telling him the truth or not. Either way, the man appreciated the gesture and had taken superb care of the vintage classic. If his grandfather could see him now, he was sure he would have agreed he’d chosen the right grandkid to inherit it.
The man lifted the trunk’s lid and reached a hand inside, and then quickly recoiled before he had the chance to claim his precious cargo. The cargo was restless, like a wild cat, and had started kicking in the man’s direction, smashing a foot into his hand like an immature, ungrateful twat.
To teach his cargo a lesson, the man slammed the trunk closed again.
“I’m trying to be reasonable here, kid,” the man said. “But if this is how you’re going to treat me, I’ll leave you in here forever to rot and waste away. Is that what you want?”
The man didn’t mean it, of course. He used a special cleaner to keep the upholstery smelling fresh. The stench of a decaying body would ruin it, just like his mum’s bag of peaches had when she’d left them in the back seat until they turned to mush. The smell never did come out.
The man hesitated a moment for effect and then said, “What was that? Did you say something?”
“I’m sorry,” the kid mumbled. “I won’t do it again. Please, let me out.”
“That’s better. Still, I want to be sure the valuable lesson I’m teaching here today has been learned. I’m a bit ravenous, so I’m going to go make a sandwich. When I finish, I’ll come out here and get you, and we’ll try again.”
As the kid began to cry, the man shook his head and turned, heading toward the house. Why was the kid crying? He’d just told him he’d be back. That was the problem with teenagers today. They were too damn soft.
The man walked into the kitchen, removed a loaf of homemade bread he’d baked recently, and sliced it, pausing a moment to hold one of the pieces under his nose and take a big whiff. It was perfect, just like always.
He buttered the bread, fried it in a pan, and set the slices on a plate. Returning to the pan, he rubbed a spicy sauce mixture over a few barramundi fillets, a variety of delicious Asian sea bass, and grilled it. In the meantime, he whipped up a coleslaw mixture to spread over the sauce. When everything was finished, he took a step back, marveling at yet another spectacular masterpiece. The presentation itself was magnificent. He snapped a photo and uploaded it to his food blog with the caption: Succulent Sandwich Saturday, knowing the photo would be a winner with his 9,033 subscribers.
He pulled a chair out and sat down, and then said, “Petey, lunch is ready.”
Petey entered the room, smiling as he gazed at the artistry laid out before him.
The man held up the plate and said, “You better eat up. There’s an item in the trunk I’ll need your help with in a few minutes.”