Sandwich Lord

You have won a lifetime of free sandwiches from a local sandwich shop! They give you a neat little engraved card so they can identify you.

Having free sandwiches is great, you start each day standing impatiently outside for them to open so you can start your day off with a breakfast sandwich. You drive over during lunch, despite the fact that your work is on the other side of town for your mid-day sandwich, and you will usually stop in once, or twice during the night depending what's on TV.

After several months of this your fondness for sandwiches transcends others, and you begin to feel a strange sort of kinship with them. They speak to you. (That or you have discovered the necessary dosage of cold cut preservatives to act as neuro-toxins)

The more you hear from them, the more they seem disappointed with your use of your station. "You could be doing so much more!" they implore! Give sandwiches to the hungry!

So you start spending your weekends distributing sandwiches to homeless people. Until eventually they start referring to you affectionately as "sandwich guy".

Soon you get another message from the sandwiches "Use your sandwich trust-bond to lure them into dark alleys, and then finish them!"

"What? No!" You respond.

But they persist, "It is your right and duty as Sandwich Lord!"

So you do it, and enjoy it. The "free sandwiches" card in your pocket grows colder and hums contentedly with each kill.

You become very good at feigning surprise and horror when other hobos tell you that someone has gone missing while you hand them sandwiches.

Were you a stronger man you might resist at this point, in a last ditch effort to claw yourself back up out of the abyss before it is too late.

But you aren't that man.


You are the only journalist at a major news outlet who does serious news anymore, and are unsure how much longer you will be able to go before you are discovered.

You started out small, injecting news facts via metaphors "the starlet's hair appeared on the runway with the sort of smooth sheen akin to that on the lake near Decatur, AL where a tanker load of benzene was overturned off a bridge".

You went straight for a few months after that, wary of any blowback, but soon the thrill of doing actual forbidden journalism so excited you that you had to try it again and again. The second you went down this path, you knew how it would end, but you didn't care.

Especially now, you seem to be embracing the end. Last week you interjected an entire non-sequitor fact filled paragraph into a story, planning on blaming it on some corruption from an older file in the system.

This has prompted a full review of all your other stories, and the men with lab coats who just walked past your cube avoiding eye contact can mean only one thing. That this season's fall fashions are more revealing than ever.