I’ve been an exterminator for about six years now, and my co-worker, Tom, has been with me every step of the way. Tom and I have a staler relationship than the breakroom bread that hasn’t been touched since the winter holidays of last year. Yeah, we work together, but that’s like saying Tom and Jerry worked together. I clear out the trash from the bins and Tom does whatever he does with them—that’s the extent of our supposed friendship.
I get that I could be a bit of a dick myself sometimes, so I like to give Tom the benefit of the doubt. Aside from watching the little bubbles in water jugs rise to the top and make a fun thwomp sound, I don’t like many things about my job. I suppose my reluctance to not make a complete and total ass out of Tom every time he does something mundane may be the reason he doesn’t like me.
Well, a couple of weeks ago, he was chatting the ear off of some client in the waiting room beside me. The air was so sour I could taste the silence—or lack thereof.
“My mince pies have won more ribbons than extermination ever did, I’m beginning to think I might’ve gotten into the wrong career!”
What could his soggy stale mince pies possibly do to benefit the client other than helping them make room for dinner? Seriously, I was getting sick of this guy.
Finger-Food-Friday was coming up and I didn’t think I’d be wasting my day off at a company barbecue. The only thing I’m looking to burn is bridges, and a few excuses could’ve gotten me one step closer to curling up on my bed reading Reddit stories till I gave up on scrolling. But alas, my tiny brain could only ignore so many Fridays before the big boss got mad and forced me into it. At least Tom and I will have something in common; our participation ribbons.
Weaving my way through sticky sauces and stickier small talk, I made my way to the very edge of the exit—inching toward my car keys.
“Hey wanna try my pie?”
GODIFUCKINHATE TOM. That guy absolutely knows I do not want to be here.
“Nah man, I’m going home. Cya at work though.”
That guy can’t take a hint if I hit him in the face with it. For a full thirty minutes, Tom was trying to cram pie in my face. I grabbed one of his stupid little shortbreads and headed out to my car.
The next Monday, Tom asked how it was. Since I hadn’t eaten it, I just made noises like “mmmh so guuuud” like I was some kind of pornstar. The next thing I knew, I was being hoisted into a back room; a dusty broom closet I assumed Tom lived in.
“Look, I’d be happy to share the profits if you want in. So many people said the same thing! I know my pie can make a difference in the market.”
Even I am not cold enough to crush this man’s dreams, but I’m also not getting paid enough to support them. I gently told Tom that I just wasn’t interested and moved on. His smile slowly inverting after each word I spoke was absolutely uncharacteristic of Tom. I don’t think any food in the world could leave a taste so bad in my mouth.
Later that day, I ate Tom’s stupid pie. Maybe it was out of pity, or out of the realization that I’m just not that great of a guy; either way, his pie no longer sat on my counter.
Oh…
my god.
How could he serve this?
A long thread of black hair came out of my mouth. I dropped the bite and hurled up the rest. Lifting the pie back up to eye level I finally figured out what it is he did to the trash every night.
A rat claw still tethered to its limp arm lay hanging out of the thing. I could trace each nerve in its tiny tissue—fur falling off its skin and into my mouth. I assumed the eye atop the pie was just a bit of Halloween decor, though now I know I just had a staring contest with the latest victim and their brutal death. A death Unknowingly helped to cover. It looked longingly at me…calling me to help it. A small part of me knows it’s still alive in that oven—I watched its tiny paws squeal and shake through the eye of this previous enemy. I saw the reflection of its killer’s face frozen in the tears it must’ve shed.
Looking closer, I saw a small white pill inside the pie. I hadn’t bit through it, but there were several scattered throughout the breading.
What was Tom trying to do to me at that party?
Picking up the phone and calling the police, I grabbed my keys. I knew it wasn’t safe to stay there, so I drove to the nearest station I could. Call on one hand, wheel on the other, I sped down the highway and aching for the sun to wait a few moments longer before it set.
“Ambulance, police, or fire truck?”
“P-police- I… please.”
Directed to another line as my GPS directed me past the winding roads.
“Hello, sir or ma’am. How can I help you?”
“There’s this guy, I- uh, a coworker he- he uh.. he”
“What happened to your coworker?”
“Nothing. Not yet- I hope, I mean- ugh. He made pie”
“I’m not sure I understand…”
“The pie, I donknow what’s in it”
“He drugged you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I’ll be at the station soon, please just arrest Tom.”
“I gave you the offer. We could make millions.”
The phone call went silent. My heartbeat churned to the melody of the turn signal.
“T-tom I…”
“You don’t understand how much I need this—how much WE need this. Recycling and turning a profit; we could make. Millions.”
Tom, please.
“Go home. We can talk there. Just you, me, a glass of wine and the rats in the walls.”
Tom please I’m scared.
Whipping down the road my hands began to froth. My nails: digging into the melting steering wheel. Crashing into a light post; the car is still hot from the AC. Steam arose from the hood of my truck… my mouth was dry, I slouched in agony, and my tears froze into the reflection in my rearview mirror. He was here.
Next Friday, Tom brought his famous mince pies—a crowd favourite. He said I was an asshole for not showing up to eat them. I watched the roofs of people’s mouths as they chowed down on my long black hair.