A Time To Grill

by Jimmy Chili Powder

Gary gazed at Scott hungrily. Twenty-eight hours and counting, and no sign of escape yet. How does one become trapped in a fifteen-foot-high elevator in the middle of the West Edmonton Mall, anyway?

Gary sighed and leaned back further. His stomach aching with hunger and mouth dry with thirst, he reflected for the hundredth time on which of his bodily fluids he could most easily consume. Sweat, mucus, urine, pus, blood… “You wouldn’t happen to be lactating, would you?” he asked Scott in desperation.

“Yeah, Gary. Why don’t you come over here and suck on my teat.”

The strain on these two men was obvious. Scott, a strapping young stock broker, had smoked his last Camel hours ago and was idly fumbling with a matchbook. Gary, a well-bred savvy grad student, kept attempting to make light of the bleak circumstances.

“Man, I’ve got a hankering for some ribs,” Gary said.

“Shut up.”

It was hard to tell who had the upper hand in this miniature model of Darwinism: Scott, with the propane grill he had just bought hidden in a Banana Republic bag; or Gary, with his brand-new spice rack, complete with twenty-four different 8-oz. bottles, including allspice and nutmeg.

“Say, why does it smell like currant inhere?” Scott asked.

“Uh — I don’t know. Maybe it was something you ate before this happened. What did you have for dinner two nights ago?”

“I don’t know, Gary, but from the looks of what’s layin’ in the corner over there, it wasn’t no beef burgundy.”

The lights went down on another day of shopping, and Scott began to get that weird sensation again. The hunger pangs were nearly uncontrollable at night, in total darkness, slowly losing strength. “I wonder how his ribs would taste?” Scott thought. “I haven’t had ribs since last Fourth of July.”

“I gotta take a piss,” Gary said.

“Whatever, just make sure you get it all in the cup so we can both have some this time.”

Gary sighed. “Fine. Hey, Scott, try to find the cinnamon. We can mix in some to take the aftertaste off it.”

“Great, and how ’bout I sprinkle my shit with basil for an entreé?”

Scott reached around in the dark, but quickly stopped. “Cinnamon? Where’d the fuck did you get cinnamon. You’ve been holdin’ out on me you fuckin’ bastard.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Scott? You’re starting to go delirious.”

“That’s what those strange slurping noise were last night. You’ve got food, you fuck!” Scott screamed.

“Slurping? I was masturbating! How else am I supposed to get my daily protein intake?”

Scott lunged forward and wrestled Gary to the ground. Reaching for the propane grill he fell back onto the floor with it in his hands. Gary sprang up and smacked against the button panel, triggering an emergency light to turn on.

“A grill?!” Gary exclaimed. “You mean instead of cold slimy shit we could’ve been eating fried and/or barbecued shit all along?”

“Yeah, we’ll now I’m gonna be eating fried and/or barbecued Gary!”

• • • • • • • •

Two days later, the top of the elevator was finally pried open. A rescue squad dropped in and discovered Gary gnawing on bones, surrounded by half-empty vials of ginger, caraway, marjoram, and chutney. Scott’s spleen, gall bladder, and half a lung were laying beside the propane grill, and his genitalia were simmering with a dash of chives.

“Do I smell chives?” asked one confused rescue worker. “With a hint of oregano, perhaps?”

“Actually, it’s more of a tarragon flavoring,” Gary said.