Mr. Milk

“He was such a quiet man…”

I grimace and try to hide my face behind the mirror hanging down from the roof of my car, Sure he was. But a little too quiet, don’t you think?

I hear hushed voices flooding the neighborhood as I swing my right hand behind the car seat and grip it so hard that my knuckles turn white.

“He always seemed so kind as well.”

“I know, right! He always offered to make us coffee and tea.”

I scoff at the foolishness of my absurdly ignorant neighbors as I crane back my neck to get a better view of my car’s rear window, but the death grip of my left hand on the wheel makes it hard for me to turn into the uphill driveway of my humble abode.

Everything about his home just seemed so perfect. Every single bush lining the path leading to his door was neatly trimmed to the leaf, and there wasn’t a single bump on the concrete of his driveway, but I could see through the facade. I live close enough to see it all through the small window beaming at me from his base of operations.

I knew there was something wrong with him from the moment I caught him pouring that pearly white substance into a bone-dry bowl before shaking in some golden rings. Whatever he was trying to do, it must’ve turned out to be disgusting, because I saw him dig a little grave for it in his backyard that very afternoon.

Everybody called me an anxious man, but I knew something was wrong, I knew from the very start.

When I finally get out of my car, I try to close my door as quietly as possible but of course my efforts bear rotten fruit. I sigh at the rubber flesh of my car door peeking out from behind the crack. My heart pounds as I aggressively yank it back open and slam it as hard as I can. I immediately crouch down behind the car, and I wait for the burning sensation in my face to subside.

Now that I think about it, that man drinks some sort of pearly white substance every morning… I saw some resting at the bottom of his cup while he poured in this clear, brown substance that came from what looked like boiling water soaked in the ashes of dead cigarettes. About a week ago, he was sharing some with a nice young man in a dark leather jacket, jet-black pants, and some shiny black shoes. Those two were happily chatting away with a noticeably large briefcase resting under the glass table. The juvenile disappeared at one point in time, but I must’ve stopped paying attention by then, because I had better things to do.

Oh, and there was that one time he poured it in before adding some steaming hot water soaked in some sort of weed. I hadn’t thought that I would ever see him tap dance on his table the way he did.

I try to take a little peek from behind my car, but my eyes are blinded by the sunlight reflecting off of several chunks of shiny stone wrapped around each of his wrinkly fingers.

I slump to the ground with my back pressing against the hot metal of my car, and I sigh with relief as I listen to the soft, soothing clink of his metal chains.

This criminal of a man, who pours in milk before his cereal, coffee, and tea, deserves to be condemned for life.