Thanksgiving Leftovers

I visit the mind control room. The agents behind the one-way glass have faces painted like skeletons. Although no one can see them, they figure a disguise is in order.

Currently, they have a drugged police detective strapped to the chair. He’s been snooping into the Agency. They’ll plant a false memory in his head to get him off the case.  Their usual ruse— a recollection of his father forbidding him to be a cop. Then they’ll drop him on the street to rediscover himself as an artist or poet.

Regardless, the sessions end with someone throwing casserole all over. Turkey from Pepe’s Cajun over on Broad Street to be precise. It’s the inclusion of these sensory details—the squish of okra between the toes, the burn of sage in the nose— that really sell the false remembrance.  

After, I scoop it off the floor. It’s a shame to waste.