THE LAST MEAL

Description:

Packed into cramped quarters with no memory of the outside world, they wait in darkness as giants reach in to claim them one by one. When Big Jim gets snapped in half trying to escape, the remaining inmates realize this isn't just another stretch in maximum security, it's something far worse. A darkly comic horror story about survival, hope, and the terrible moment when you finally understand, you're never getting out.

Fiction, inspired by a true event that happened while driving home one night.

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THE LAST MEAL

Maximum Security Nightmare

By Joey Raines

They were giants. Towering beings with swollen fingers and huge faces. We didn't know what they wanted. We only knew they kept reaching in. The cellblock would shake and rattle, and then the hand would come. Always sudden. Always without warning. One of us would be snatched, and then the screaming would stop.

We were packed in, like sardines in solitary confinement. The air was thick and greasy, probably from whatever slop they fed the last guys. No room to stretch. Couldn't even do push-ups properly. Everyone was pressed against someone else. No privacy. No dignity. Just waiting in a heap, trying not to think about what was outside these walls.

We stopped talking after a while. The first few who got grabbed, we hollered after them. "See you on the yard!" we'd shout. "Don't rat us out!" But nobody ever came back from wherever they went. After that, we kept our mouths shut. Like maybe if we were quiet enough, the guards wouldn't notice us. Fat chance.

At least after some got taken, there was more room. We weren't pressed together like before. Could finally stretch out a little, breathe easier. Funny how losing your cellmates could feel like a luxury.

I don't know what I ever did to be imprisoned. I have no memory of how I got here. Maybe I was born here. Perhaps that was my crime, just being born.

One of the tougher cellmates got grabbed. Big Jim, we called him, the kind who'd done hard time before and didn't flinch at anything. Always stood tall, never backed down from a fight. The hand snatched him like it always did. No ceremony. No last words. Just yanked him right out of the population.

But something went sideways. There was this awful crack. Sharp and final. Every last one of us heard it.

Half of Big Jim came tumbling back down. We all saw it. Just his top half, spinning like a broken toy before he disappeared into the depths below. Somewhere in the darkness from which nobody ever climbed back from.

The rest of him? Gone. Vanished into whatever hellhole they drag you to. We didn't say it out loud, but we all knew what that snap meant. Big Jim had been broken in half. Split right down the middle like a wishbone.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

I kept staring at that crack in the floor, hoping maybe I'd see Jim's ugly mug pop back up, grinning that gap-toothed grin of his. He didn't. And deep down, I knew he never would.

Even if he somehow made it back, what good would it do? He was out there, sure, but not free. Not even in one piece anymore. What kind of life is that?

The hand kept coming back. More inmates got dragged away. Some went quiet, accepting their fate. Others fought and clawed, but those giant, meaty fingers always won. They always did.

After a while, the terror just became part of the routine. Like bad cafeteria food or surprise inspections. It didn't go away, it just sank into everything. Every part of you. You learn to live with it, like breathing stale air and pretending it doesn't taste like despair.

And then it hit me. Not like a flash. More like food poisoning, slow and sick, crawling through your gut. We weren’t prisoners. We weren’t doing time. This wasn’t some maximum security lockup. It wasn’t punishment. We were the food. French fries, to be exact. From some greasy fast food dump. And this place? It wasn’t a prison. It was a cardboard takeout box. That’s all we ever were. Golden, crispy inmates stuck in a cardboard cell, waiting for execution by mastication, chewed up, torn apart. Somehow, that made it worse.

All that fear. All that fake tough-guy swagger. All those escape plans and revenge speeches, worthless. We were worried about shivs and shower ambushes when we should’ve been worried about ketchup packets and salt.

We weren’t doing time. We were never meant to make it out. We were meant to be eaten. Swallowed. Forgotten before the next commercial. Or in this case, before the next green light.

And most of the crew already had been.

I leaned back against the greasy wall and stopped fighting. Nothing left to do. When the hand came in for one of us, I didn’t even twitch. Just waited. It grabbed two others at once, and I got wedged between them.

But something shifted.

Something different.

Salvation came.

Those thick fingers yanked us up like usual, but this time, I slipped free. Whole. No snap. No crunch. Just a drop. I landed on soft fabric under the box, then slid down a little farther.

Somewhere above, the giant yelled, "Shit."

I was still in one piece. Still here.

It felt like a miracle. Like maybe I was the one. The fry that got out.

And I was. For a while.

I saw Big Jim’s top half in the shadows, motionless. That’s where I was headed. Maybe we could help each other. Maybe we could crawl our way out of this mess together.

But then I heard it.

A low rumble. Mechanical. Cold.

A car sweeper.

Because the truth is, nobody gets parole when you're a French fry.

Enjoyed the story? If this gave you a laugh or reminded you of your own wild car ride, I’d be honored if you’d tap the ❤️ to show some love, hit subscribe to follow me for more, and if you feel like it, you can leave a tip, totally optional, but always appreciated.

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