October, 2009

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Microwaved

"People who steal lunches suck genetically altered worms."

Abby is, uh, interesting in her choice of invective. "Someone nicked your brown bag?"

"Not mine. Bill Thornton. He and his wife are saving for the down payment on a house, so be brings his lunch. They're saving every penny they can. Three times in two weeks someone has swiped it, so he had to buy lunch!"

"They riffled his desk?"

She shook her head. "They're cracking down on people keeping food in their desks." She and Ducky exchanged faintly guilty looks; they have their own refrigerators (of necessity) and keep food in them. RHIP. "Well, on the bullpen floor, anyway. They had a problem," she euphemized. She hummed a few bars of La Cucaracha in case I missed it.

"Ah. But you two are allowed…"

"We're clean freaks," Abby said cheerfully.

True enough. "So is anyone else getting hit?"

She nodded. "I suggested surveillance cameras; Director Vance said it's not in the budget. But Bill gets hit the most."

"What—is he George McFly, NCIS's 'pick on me first' dweeb?"

Ducky shook his head. "His wife, Carrie, is a fabulous cook. Remember the Family Day picnic last year?" I nodded. "Remember the chicken roulade in puff pastry?"

I remembered it so well my stomach rumbled. "Can't forgive the theft," I said. "But I can understand the temptation. Maybe he should doctor his lunch. You know, Ex-Lax on a brownie? I had a friend in college who had her oj swiped every morning. 'Borrowed' some citric acid form the chem lab, put in a real heavy dose. It stopped."

"Well…" Abby said hesitantly.

"Or just resign himself to PBJs." I shrugged philosophically and turned back to my own cooking. It was spaghetti night; two pots of sauce were simmering on the back burners.

I almost missed the 'ah-ha!' on her face. "PB and J…" she mused. Her eyes glittered. "I have an idea…"

Han Solo fluttered through my mind: I have a bad feeling about this…

/ / / / /

*ping*

The Case of the Pilfered Pot Roast is solved!

I pressed the "call" selection on the text message screen. "Hi, Sandy!" Abby chirped.

"Okay. What happened?"

"Oh, you should have been here at lunch! It was Dave Seldon from accounting! He looked pretty weasely," she said sagaciously. "Actually—he looked kinda green when the EMTs took him away."

I squeaked. "Abby! Oh, my god! Did you kill him?"

"No, no," she laughed. "But he's feeling pretty crappy."

"Uh-oh—Ex-Lax doughnuts?" Jeez. Will I be sued as an accomplice?"

"No," she said with a giggle. "PBJ."

"Oh, shit," I moaned. It was my suggestion. "He's got a nut allergy?"

"Nope. But he's not real crazy about habaneros, I bet."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"Bill made a very special sandwich last night," she said mysteriously. "Tootsie makes this—"

"Tootsie?"

"Carrie's nickname is Tootsie. Don't ask me why. Anyway, she makes this awesome wholegrain bread, just incredible, everyone knows it's the best on the planet, so even just a PBJ is a—a religious experience."

PBJ and milk replacing wafers and wine? Hmm.

"So. Bill made this beautiful sandwich. Natural, chunky-style peanut butter. Orange marmalade…" She snickered. "Mmmmh—not! Did you know that some kinds of honey have a color like light orange marmalade?"

"I do, now,' I said cautiously.

"And if you carefully sliver habanero chilies and mix them with the honey, boy, it looks just like orange marmalade. But when you bite into it—"

"Oh, ow."

"Yep. Security brought the lunch over, asked Bill what the hell he poisoned Dave with. Bill just gave him an innocent look. 'Peanut butter and habanero honey.' Pete gave him this, 'oh, please' look—so Bill takes the unbitten half, takes a big chomp, washes it down with a nice gulp of milk—"

I laughed. I've eaten enough Mexican and Middle Eastern food. You want to quash a fire in your mouth? Use yogurt or milk.

"—and he swallowed the bite whole, so it was surrounded by the bread. Well, clearly he just packed it for lunch, never dreaming someone would steal it…"

I was laughing. Hard. I couldn't not laugh.

"Security cleared out his desk—theft is a big company no-no—and schlepped it to him in the ER. Can you imagine how embarrassing that was?"

"Cheaters never prosper," I said primly.

"Nope. But I think I'm gonna make a PB and HH tonight—just to try it out."

"You may have my share."

The moral of the story is—don't get mad, don't get even, get ahead… and stay there.

This tale was lifted darn near whole cloth from A Friend In Real Life. Only the work location has been changed to protect the guilty… and the innocent.