Poison Banquet

The guards aren’t allowed to beat us anymore, but they still torture us.
They have a chef cook feasts for them. The air ducts are arranged to blanket the jail with the kitchen smells:
Fresh baked bread.
Deep, rich gumbo.
Buttery, roasted corn.
So good!
Then they slide trays with the usual, horrible slop under the bars.
The chef is one of us. Did twenty years for putting a knife in a man trying to rob his restaurant.
They beat him bad too many times, so he’s adding his extra special ingredient tonight.
“Poison never tasted so good,” he chuckles.