Compliments to the Chef

"Are you still working on that?" Marcia gestured to the plate, where a third of the expensive meal remained.

"No, I'm done." The customer leaned back and patted her belly. "Compliments to the chef, though."

"She'll love hearing that. Shall I fetch a box?"

"Ehhhh... no, thanks."

Marcia's solicitous smile faded over several seconds. "No box?"

Another waiter passed by. "What's going on?"

"She doesn't want a box, Jenny." Jenny dropped a wine glass but didn't seem to care.

"No box?"

Marcia grew pale. "What do we do?"

"Well, we don't tell her."

"Of course not!"

"Maybe we can sneak it past her..."

"Yes!" Marcia pushed the plate into Jenny's hands. "You do it," she hissed. Jenny pushed back with a protest, but Marcia insisted. "It's my table. If I do it, she'll know something's up. You have to!"

Jenny inhaled deeply, concealed the remnants of the meal beneath another plate, and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, indecipherable shouts, pitched high with alarm, rang out. The chef burst from the kitchen. She ran through the restaurant sobbing into her toque, and fled into the night.

Marcia looked at the slack-jawed customer. "I really wish you'd taken the box."

One-Line Review: Comparative Cinema—Fail Safe (1964) and Dr Strangelove (1964)

One provided a dramatization of a doomsday scenario, and the other gave viewers a film of characters as mad as the world felt to those living in it.

See my one-line reviews of Fail Safe and Dr Strangelove.

One-Line Review: Dr Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964), starring Peter Sellers, George C. Scott, and Sterling Hayden

Dr Strangelove's absurdist humor treats the concept of nuclear holocaust with the honesty it deserves.

One-Line Review: Fail Safe (1964) starring Dan O'Herlihy, Walter Matthau, and Henry Fonda

Fail Safe is too optimistic about the logic available to the American president and the leader of the Soviet Union.

A Cigarette's Dying Breath

When the lights came on, the revolver lay in the middle of the old study. A wisp of smoke, like a cigarette's dying breath, drifted from its muzzle. Five guests stood in shocked silence, their host lying dead with a hole in her chest.

"What do we do?" Marie asked.

Yasmin toyed with a massive dictionary. "Call the police. Touch nothing."

Gerald looked frozen stiff. "But we're in here with a murderer! I want the gun!" He looked at the others. "To protect myself."

"No one touch the gun." Yasmin's voice was calm. "You'll mess up the fingerprints. The murderer wants that to happen, the innocent don't. So if you aren't the murderer, don't pick up the weapon. If you are the murderer, picking it up won't help." She smiled.

"So..." Gerald looked around the room. "If I'm not the murderer, you'll stop me from touching the gun?" Yasmin nodded. "And if I am?" She shrugged. "Okay... I did it!" He lunged for the gun. Yasmin's book clocked him in the face, and she bound him in moments.

"Mystery solved, ladies and gentleman."

Gerald grunted. "I only said that to get the gun!"

"Tell it to the judge, confessed murderer."