As his way of saying "thanks" for his help in landing the Henderson account, Teman Road resident and Account Representative Paul Holdfield Invited his boss Mr. McAdam over to dinner the other night after giving a “heads-up” to wife Babs.
“I left work a little early to help Babs with dinner,” the sharp-dressed account manager said from the comfort of his rumpus room as he crossed his legs and lit his pipe while awaiting the arrival of his crusty yet benign boss. “She’s got a roast in the ov-“
Ding-dong! Paul’s words were interrupted by the doorbell. He excused himself, walked into his split-level foyer and answered the door. As expected, it was Mr. McAdam, President and partner of the firm McAdam and Farnsworth.
“Hold-FIELD!” He shouted, rocking back on his heels as he folded his arms defensively.
Paul froze – what had he done wrong this time? “Uh, ye . . . yes Mr. McAdam?” he stuttered, just before Mr. McAdam broke into a big toothy smile, grabbed Paul in a headlock and gave him a good-natured noogie. After a good laugh, Paul invited his boss down the steps into the rumpus room, offering him a seat on the free-form couch and a Tom Collins on the rocks.
Putting some Dino on the hi-fi, and after some good-natured ribbing about the incident on the porch and a look at Babs’ sad clown paintings lining the paneled rumpus room walls, Babs called down the stairs and announced to the two that dinner was ready. “You are going to love Babs’ roast,” Paul bragged as they sat down at the candlelit table and Babs draped her apron over the kitchen stool before she too came in and sat down. “Her secret ingredient is . . . black pepper!”
“Now Paul, don’t you go giving away all my cooking secrets!” Bab said with a wink toward Mr. McAdam, to his delight. “Let Mr. McAdam find them out on his own!”
“I see one already - are those slivered almonds in the green beans?” McAdam asked with a twinkle in his eye, “and real mashed potato flakes? You’ve got quite a little woman there, Holdfield.”
“Don’t I know it, sir.” Paul answered with a little wink toward his wife, who blushed in modest pride.
After chowing down on the delicious dinner, Babs sprung a real surprise on Mr. McAdam – his favorite lemon popovers, straight from the oven. “Why Babs – you shouldn’t have!” he cried as he finished the first and reached for the second one. “Why, these are absol . . ."
He never finished. The strychnine in the popovers instantly paralyzed Mr. McAdams’ esophagus and vocal chords. He gagged for air, his face turned black and his eyes rolled back in his head before he fell backwards in his chair, twisting and twitching uncontrollably, his nervous system shutting down in response to the toxic doses. Babs and Paul calmly finished their popovers until Mr. McAdam finally twitched to a stop. They then hoisted his stiff and unresponsive body, carried him up to the bathtub, which had been filled earlier by Paul with concentrated sulfuric acid. They toppled the lifeless body into the sizzling, poisonous brew, then stood back as it sizzled and popped furiously, the toxic acid dissolving first the skin, then the organs and finally the bones. After about an hour, as Paul and Babs enjoyed a gin rickey, and seeing that the boss’s body was completely dissolved, Paul pulled the bath plug and the wretched blood and acid bath drained out. Babs fetched a 50-lb bag of neutralizing salts and she and Paul washed it down the bath drain to minimize damage to the pipes caused by the acid.
Finally, after cleaning any final remnants of the former Mr. McAdam, Paul and Babs made love on the downstairs futon before they picked up their packed suitcases and walked out to the family Chevy wagon. Just as they got in Paul pressed a button on a small remote in his hand, igniting the gas leak in the kitchen and setting the entire split-level rancher on fire.
“Babs, your popovers hit the spot.” Paul said just as they drove away to their eventual destination of Tijuana, Mexico.
