Pick Your Poison

“Good morning, sir.” A portly fellow with a dark mustache and a bad combover stood behind the counter. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a nice plant for my wife,” I said. As much as I loved flowers, they often wilted and died within days, so I wanted something that would last. 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. What’s the occasion?”

I hesitated, debating whether or not to lie. In the end, I figured the man would never see me again, so it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth. 

“Well, to be honest, I upset my wife earlier, and now I need to make it up to her.”

A chuckle escaped the man’s lips. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be a millionaire.”

“I can imagine. Any suggestions?”

The man pivoted and rubbed his chin, eyeing several plants along the wall behind the counter. “This Creeping Zinnia is nice.”

“Creeping Zinnia?”

The man turned to me and nodded. “Yeah. If you touch the leaves of the plant and then rub your eyes, it will cause you to go blind.” 

My brow furrowed. 

“Or maybe this Skunk Hair,” the man said, moving along to another. “When the temperature gets too hot or too cold, it will release a putrid toxin that will cause your body to convulse.”

Was this guy for real? 

“So, these are poisonous plants?” I said. 

“Yes.”

“But I’m looking for a harmless plant.”

“Unfortunately, all of the plants in my store are poisonous. Or, at least, dangerous in some way.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I think I made a mistake.” I spun around and walked toward the exit. When I put my hand to the door knob, it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell?” I muttered. 

“It’s locked,” the man said. 

I turned to him. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t bought anything yet. I have a button under the counter, and I locked the door after you entered the store. Without any other customers to bother us, you have my undivided attention. Now that’s service. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Are you serious? You can’t keep me here. I’m calling the cops.”

I slid a hand into my pants pocket, ready to pull my phone from it. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” the man said, a sly smile stretching across his face. 

“And why’s that?”

“See those vines overhead?”

I tilted my head back. Vines practically covered the ceiling, some of them hanging only a few feet from my head. 

“They can release flesh-eating spores,” he said. “At my command.”

This guy was crazier than I thought. 

“Really?” I said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “First of all, I don’t know of any plant that releases flesh-eating spores. And even if it is capable of doing that, how could you possibly control it?”

The man shrugged. “Many people call me the plant whisperer. I have a way with them. They’re like my children. Sometimes they don’t listen to me, but they’ll do as I say most of the time.”

A thought came to me. “So, you’d risk exposing yourself to the spores just to punish me for not buying a plant?”

He removed something from under the counter and held it up. “That’s why I have this umbrella. Just in case.”

I doubted an umbrella would completely protect him, but I wasn’t about to debate it.

“This is ludicrous!” I shouted. 

“Maybe, but do you really want to take the chance that I’m right?”

I mulled it over, then approached the counter. “I find it hard to believe that people haven’t complained about what you’re doing here. Whether it’s to the Better Business Bureau or The Department of Health. Even the police. How are you still in business?”

“You’d be surprised. I have connections all over town. And in high places, too.”

“And what’s to keep me from blabbing when I leave? I can urge everyone I know not to come here.”

“Plants are sensitive to human emotion. They can pick up on the slightest vibe. And if you’ve been badmouthing me, your plant will know it.”

I swallowed. “What are you implying?”

“It will take defensive measures. Which will be unpleasant for you and your wife. And anyone else in your household.”

“Then what’s to stop me from throwing it in the trash once I leave here?”

“The same. It will consider it a threat and take action. Plants can communicate with one another, and all of its buddies will make your life a living hell.”

I was about to call his bluff when something tickled my cheek. I flinched at the vine. It had lowered itself from the ceiling, then quickly recoiled like a snake. 

“Do you believe me now?” the man asked. 

I let out a frustrated breath. “Look. What if I pay for a plant but don’t actually take one?”

The man shook his head. “The whole point is to find loving homes for these plants. I don’t do it for the money. In fact, I’m barely breaking even running this business. It may be hard to believe, but these plants will grow on you. No pun intended. Anyway, if you love them, you have nothing to fear.”

I deliberated. “Fine. Do you have a plant that’s a little friendlier than the ones you already mentioned?”

“It depends on your definition of friendly.” He turned to another plant behind him. “For example, take this Spotted Redbrush. It has a better temperament. You really have to piss it off for it to retaliate. But if you anger it, you’ll have the most agonizing rash for weeks.”

That didn’t sound appealing to me in the least. 

I pointed to one on my left. “What about that one?”

The owner moved toward the plant. “This one?”

I nodded.

“That’s the Brown-Eyed Common Alder,” he said. 

“And what does it do?”

“It can put you to sleep.”

My lips stretched into a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It wouldn’t be if that’s all it did. You’ll also experience vivid nightmares, and you’ll be vomiting for hours once you wake.”

I cringed at the thought, and my shoulders slumped in disappointment. 

“I can sense your indecision,” the man said. 

“Is it that obvious?” I took a breath. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“Be my guest.”

I perused the store, the owner hovering behind me the entire time. Then I spotted one. It resembled a small basil plant. It looked innocent enough. Then again, I’d come to realize that appearances could be deceiving. 

“You like that one?” the man inquired. 

“Maybe. I’m afraid to ask about it though.”

“It’s a Healing Ribwort. It’s called that because it can regenerate itself after being damaged. It’s one of the most resilient plants I know of.”

“But?”

“I’m not going to lie,” the owner said. “It’s partial to women. It tends to lash out more at men. But only if you give it a reason to. It can make one of your appendages go limp.”

My eyes bulged. “You mean—”

“Yeah. That appendage.”

I nearly choked on my saliva as I swallowed. I pondered for a moment, ultimately coming to a decision. 

“I’ll take it,” I said. 

The man raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. I figure there’s even more incentive for me to treat it well. And if I happen to anger it for some reason, at least it will take it out on me and not my wife.”

“Makes sense. So, how would you like to pay? Cash or charge?”

“Cash,” I said. “I’d rather my wife not know how much I’m spending on a flaccid penis plant.”

Deep Fried

Another shitty end to another shitty day. Noah was clopening, again, even though he was pretty sure it violated some OSHA bullshit that he had to be at work five hours after clocking out. Why did McBiggies even stay open this late? No one in this shit-for-brains town went out after ten, but the owner insisted they stay open until two in the morning just in case some big-rig trucker got the hankering for midnight diarrhea. Whatever. Noah put in his earbuds, turned them up full-blast, and mopped the floor to music most people he knew would classify as “Satanic.”

It was essential that Noah closed the front of house as quickly as possible, not because he was a particularly loyal minimum wage employee committed to avoiding time theft – fuck that – but because he was closing with Jeff. Jeff was the living embodiment of everything wrong with the world. Dropout, pot-smoker, rape-joker, ass-smacker, shrimp-dick motherfucker who, for some ungodly reason, thought he was the hottest shit to ever hit the pavement. Jeff could go choke on his light beer and chicken wings. Jeff could go take an Ambien and lie sideways on the train tracks. Jeff could go hang himself with his grandma’s shit-stained panties. Jeff could go—

“Becca, will you turn that shit down? I can hear it from the walk-in.”

Noah’s dream sequence of increasingly humiliating and painful ends to the boil that was Jeff shattered, and right when they were getting good. Noah ripped out an ear bud, whipping around and wishing to God he had a weapon of some kind. No one would miss this imbecile, this veritable worm, this Jeff.

“That’s not my name, Jeff,” Noah spit. He didn’t even bother making eye contact. He put his ear bud back in, punched the volume knob on his phone, even though it was already maxed out, and mopped like he was trying to scrape the tiles off the floor.

What a piece of shit, what a cretin. These idiots have no idea what’s coming. When the grid dropped and chaos reigned supreme, Noah would laugh as Jeff and the mealworms like him begged for water, for shelter, for their puny lives while he sat on a throne of—

“Don’t touch me!” Noah shouted, dropping his mop and pushing Jeff away with both hands. The fucker had snuck up behind Noah and ripped out his ear buds with the typical audacity of a cis, straight, white guy. 

“Jesus, calm down, groomer,” Jeff retorted with great intelligence. “Keep it down or I’ll bitch about you to Janice, again. One more complaint and you get fired, right?”

Empires were burned to the ground with less fury than that which Jeff’s shit-eating grin stirred up in Noah. What made it worse, Jeff was right. Noah had already been warned by the owner, Janice, in a one-on-one last week that his ice was getting thinner and thinner. Not a single one of his own complaints against coworkers who misgendered and dead-named him seemed to find their way into any of their folders, but for some nearly unfathomable reason, every single complaint against him had been typed out, Xeroxed, and filed alphabetically. Noah hated his job, almost more than he hated the government, but he needed the money. So, he turned off his music, ground his teeth, and wheeled the mop bucket to the kitchen to drain.

“Oh, Christ, he hasn’t even shut down the friers yet,” Noah thought, rolling his eyes. He’d probably be here for another hour, at least, since he couldn’t leave till Jeff finished closing the back of house. Whatever, he’d sit in a booth and harness his anger into a rant on Discord. He liked the people in the new server he joined. They weren’t snowflakes like so many other alphabet people. They wanted real change, like him, and they weren’t afraid to dirty their hands getting it done. 

“You know, if you tried a little harder, I bet you’d be fuckable as a chick.” 

This influx of charm announced Jeff’s arrival in the kitchen. You’d think that after a year of harassing Noah, Jeff would have come up with at least some new material. But no, it always circled back around to Noah’s fuckability as a chick, broad, or female. 

“You don’t even flatten your tits all that good. I can tell you’re like a C-cup.”

Speculative fixations on Noah’s binded chest, right on cue. 

“I just think it’s kind of pathetic how hard you try and how bad you fail. You don’t look like a dude or a chick, just some sort of—”

“Freak?” Noah couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t hold his tongue and listen to the same slew of shit from another low-life piece of shit. He knew he was fuming because he couldn’t think of any other words to call Jeff than “shit.”

“Exactly,” Jeff sneered, wiping down the grill with a sponge, “you saved my breath. A freak.”

Noah straightened the bottles of bleach and ammonia on the cleaning supply shelf with a precision that would make fascists proud. These idiots have no idea what’s coming. One more word out of him, and it’s over. 

“You know, I think I saw something like you crawling around on the Discovery channel. What was it called? He-She’s Gone Wild?”

Go ahead, shithead. I dare you. One more crack like that and—

“No, it wasn’t Discovery channel,” Jeff laughed, “it was Brazzers. Some bitch like you was in a train. Damn, maybe that’s what you need. A good fucking from six fat cocks, one after the other. Maybe then you’ll stop trying to—” 

Noah had never stabbed someone before. It was much easier than he anticipated. For all the corners McBiggies cut, they sure kept their knives sharp. Jeff was screaming, trying to pull the blade from his shoulder. Noah took care of that, sticking it back in twice more. He laughed, which was a mistake.

Jeff was almost twice as big as Noah. He’d been in a good mood ten seconds ago, making fun of the local freakshow. Now he was pissed, and bleeding profusely. 

“You bitch!” Jeff screamed, socking Noah in the stomach. 

Noah doubled over, another mistake, and got a knee to the face. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” Jeff spit. He twisted his neck to try and assess his injuries. “They’re gonna have a lot of fun with you in prison, faggot. You’re fucking dead, you know that?”

Noah didn’t answer. Instead, he straightened himself with calm collection, gathered his inner resources, and headbutted Jeff in the stomach. The two struggled, deer with antlers locked. Jeff wrapped his arms around Noah’s waist, attempting some janked-up form of a pile-driver. Noah kept stabbing Jeff below the ribs. When he hit Jeff’s hip, Jeff let out a high-pitched wail his buddies would roast him for, if they were here. But they weren’t, and this little shit was killing him. 

Jeff was losing blood and strength fast, which excited Noah. He hadn’t put much thought into this whole thing, but now that he was murdering someone, he figured he better do it right. He backed away from Jeff, who stumbled and leaned against the stove. A sweat broke out on his forehead. His eyes were getting hazy. There’s no way this faggot was gonna murder him. 

This was one of the last thoughts Jeff had. Noah dropped the knife, side-stepped a weak swipe from Jeff, and grabbed the dying man from behind. Normally, Noah needed help stocking ten-pound flour sacks or five gallon buckets of mayonnaise, but the thrill of getting even coursed through his veins. Noah drug a quickly-dying Jeff under the arms to the fryers. 

It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant smell when the flesh cooked, but it also wasn’t worse than a lunch rush. Noah only wished he had his music playing to accompany the screams. Some oil splashed up onto Noah’s forearms, bubbling his skin. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. The sound of that fucker cooking, the slip of his shoe on his own stinking blood, the crack of his head against the hard tile, it was more than cathartic. It was holy. 

Noah laughed. He laughed as he washed his hands. He laughed as he gathered his things. He laughed as he stepped over Jeff’s body, pausing to snap a picture. 

“Hey guys,” Noah typed into Discord, “you’ll never guess what I just did.”