Page 20 of The Secret Dinner

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Miguel, dropping his chopsticks on the table.

“Just to be clear: What does CUT mean on this list?” Hugo asked.

“Cut means choosing which body we’re going to take,” I explained. “We need fresh meat. We can’t take just anybody. Like someone who died of a contagious disease, for example. Leukemia’s another no-go.”

“My God, do you even hear yourselves? Don’t you realize how morbid this all is?”

I shrugged my agreement with Miguel. It was morbid, but necessary. Hugo started gathering up the containers, chopsticks, sake bottle, and cups.

“Their cause of death is on their charts. Miguel can get that for us.”

“I already said I’m not going to have anything to do with that part. You’ll have to fend for yourselves.”

“Does the hospital have electronic charts?” asked Piglet.

Miguel nodded apathetically.

“Then let me handle it. I can hack into the hospital records system.”

We stared at each other. There was nothing else to say. This silence was one of dread, and a desire to put off what now felt inevitable. Piglet went to his room and came back with his laptop, then began messaging mindlessly back and forth on Instagram. The sound of chat notifications popping up irritated me. I asked him to stop. In a moment of inspiration, Piglet also took out his iPhone and changed the name of our group chat from “Orgy in Rio” to “Team Seagull Meat.”

Miguel’s phone was blowing up and he rushed to check his messages. He seemed to be having a very important conversation with that annoying girl Rachel. I tried to continue nailing down the specifics, but it was hopeless at this point. Everyone was distracted. I wanted to stick those blunt scissors in Miguel’s jugular, seal Hugo’s lips shut with the glue stick, and smash Piglet’s MacBook. Instead I got up to grab a beer from the fridge and gulped down my Klonopin with two sips of Heineken.

When I got back to the living room, Hugo was standing, gesturing emphatically. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you guys have got to be kidding. Just look at the chicken we eat. It’s full of toxins and insecticides, clogged with antibiotics, GMOs. All beef is just a rotting corpse. Are you guys really worried about dead people who happened to be sick?! The important thing is that the meat’s fresh. Get me that and we’re golden. I’ve got this.”

Miguel went back to his damn phone. I tried to stay focused, rethink our steps. There were so many variables, all of them complex. So many chances for it to all go horribly wrong.

After a few hours, we settled on our final plan: The following morning, during Miguel’s shift, I’d enter the hospital dressed as a doctor while Hugo waited for me with Bukowski outside. Back at home, Piglet would gain access to the electronic medical records, find a recently deceased patient, and send me their hospital room via text. I’d then steal the body and roll it out in a wheelchair, pretending it was a sick patient. As the saying goes: The best place to hide a tree is in a forest.

All Miguel could say was “This is going to be a shit show. It’s gonna be a total shit show.” I gave Hugo the to-do list and made a copy for Piglet. Piglet read it out loud, as if he were speaking over the intercom at a supermarket:

“To steal a cadaver from a public hospital, all you need is: a white lab coat, a forged body-removal permit, a fake license plate, a gallon of black automotive paint, a wheelchair, a Bluetooth speaker, and a butcher knife.”

“What’s the Bluetooth speaker for?” asked Miguel.

“I’m going to play a recording of a 1950s shoot-out in the ICU,” I replied. “That should cause chaos while I get the body.”

“And what’s the knife for?”

“Butchering steaks.”

[WhatsApp Group]

TEAM SEAGULL MEAT

Hugo, Piglet, Miguel, You

Thu, Apr 20

Hugo

Just pulled up

There’s nowhere to park

02:56

This bitch is packed