Chapter 3: The Avocado Annihilator Sauce

Chapter 3: The Avocado Annihilator Sauce

Leo’s apartment kitchen, usually a sanctuary of creative joy, had transformed into a sterile laboratory. The warm glow from the under-cabinet lighting glinted off the stainless-steel countertops, which he had wiped down with antibacterial spray twice. The air, normally filled with the scent of toasted spices or rising dough, was still and charged with a tense, electric hum. This was not cooking. This was ordnance.

On the counter lay the fruits of a very specific shopping trip: the pharmacy bag with its stapled receipt and prescription bottle, and a grocery bag containing the ingredients for his magnum opus. Propped against the backsplash, his phone was angled perfectly, its red recording light a single, unblinking eye. Dr. Finch’s words echoed in his mind: Document everything.

He began with the foundation. Not ciabatta this time, but a thick-cut, seven-grain bread, studded with sunflower seeds and flax. It was wholesome, hearty, and looked deceptively healthy. He brushed both slices with extra virgin olive oil and slid them under the broiler, watching until they turned a perfect, dappled gold.

Next, the protein. He had spent a small fortune on imported prosciutto di Parma, its delicate, paper-thin slices marbled with creamy fat. He also had spicy capicola and Genoa salami. This wouldn’t be a sandwich; it would be a charcuterie board between two slices of bread. An Italian masterpiece no self-respecting food thief could possibly resist. He layered the meats with artistic precision, creating a tapestry of pink and crimson.

He added slices of fresh mozzarella, as soft and white as a cloud, followed by a layer of roasted red peppers, their sweetness a perfect counterpoint to the salty cured meats. A handful of fresh, crisp basil leaves followed, their bright, herbal aroma cutting through the richness. It was a symphony of textures and flavors, a work of art designed to be utterly, completely irresistible.

Then, it was time for the masterstroke.

He took out a perfectly ripe avocado, its skin a dark, pebbled green. He sliced it open, revealing the vibrant, buttery flesh within. He scooped it into a glass bowl, added a squeeze of lime juice, a pinch of salt, a whisper of garlic powder, and a dash of cayenne for a hidden, pleasant warmth. He mashed it with a fork until it was creamy but still had some texture. The resulting sauce was a beautiful, verdant green—the color of life, of health, of nature.

His hands paused. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was the point of no return.

With deliberate, steady fingers, he picked up the white prescription bottle. The label was stark and clinical: LEO VANCE. POLYETHYLENE GLYCOL 3350. TAKE ONE DOSE DAILY AS NEEDED FOR CONSTIPATION. He unscrewed the child-proof cap and peeled back the foil seal. Inside was a fine, white, crystalline powder. Odorless. Tasteless. As innocent-looking as powdered sugar.

He consulted the dosage instructions on the side, then carefully measured a full dose into the cap. It looked like a deceptively small amount. He took a deep breath, held it, and tipped the contents into the bowl of vibrant green avocado spread. For a moment, the white powder sat on top, a stark blemish on the otherwise perfect sauce. Then, with the tines of his fork, he began to mix.

He stirred slowly, methodically, ensuring every last crystal dissolved. The powder vanished without a trace, incorporated completely into the creamy avocado. The color didn't change. The texture didn't alter. It was still the same beautiful, inviting sauce. But now, it was armed. It was no longer just food; it was a payload. A ticking time bomb of gastrointestinal justice.

He named it in his head: The Hoagie of Judgment.

With the focus of a surgeon making the final, critical incision, he slathered the medicated avocado sauce generously over the top slice of the toasted seven-grain bread. The vibrant green was a beautiful contrast against the golden toast. He then gently placed the slice atop the layered meats and cheese, pressing down just enough to seal the masterpiece together.

He wrapped it in wax paper, the crinkling sound abnormally loud in the silent kitchen. He placed the wrapped hoagie into a new brown paper bag. In bold, black marker—his hand surprisingly steady—he wrote his name: LEO V.

He stopped the recording on his phone, saved the video to a secure cloud folder, and then tidied his kitchen, washing every bowl and utensil until no evidence remained. All that was left was the brown paper bag sitting on the counter, a deceptively mundane object humming with catastrophic potential.

The next morning, the walk from his desk to the communal kitchen at Innovate Corp felt like the longest journey of his life. The bag in his hand felt impossibly heavy. Every head that turned in his direction seemed to be watching him, knowing his secret. But he kept his expression neutral, his stride even. He was just a data analyst, bringing his lunch to work.

He opened the refrigerator door. The familiar blast of cold, stale air hit him. He placed the bag on the second shelf, his usual spot, nestled between a container of Greek yogurt and a bottle of kombucha. He pushed it back just a little, almost hiding it, but still visible. The bait was set.

He closed the refrigerator door and turned to leave. As he stepped out of the kitchen alcove, a strange feeling prickled the back of his neck. The feeling of being watched.

Slowly, as if he’d just remembered something, he turned his head for a casual glance back towards the kitchen. And his blood ran cold.

Standing near the high-end espresso machine, holding a tiny porcelain cup, was Marcus Thorne, the Vice President of Marketing. Thorne was the apex predator of Innovate Corp—impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than Leo’s rent, with silvering temples and a smile that never reached his cold, calculating eyes. He was the epitome of the old-money arrogance Dr. Finch had railed against.

Thorne was looking directly at him.

He wasn’t trying to hide it. As their eyes met, Thorne’s predatory smile widened. He lifted his espresso cup in a minute, mocking toast. His gaze then flickered deliberately from Leo to the stainless-steel refrigerator door and then back to Leo’s face. There was no doubt in that look. It was a glance of ownership, of utter, untouchable entitlement. It was the look of a man who took whatever he wanted, simply because he could. A look that said, I know you know. And there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.

The phantom was no longer a phantom. He had a face. And it was the face of a man who believed the rules were for other people.

Leo broke eye contact first, turning away with a placid expression he didn't feel. He walked back to his desk, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The anger that had been simmering for twelve weeks finally had a target. It wasn't just a faceless thief anymore. It was Marcus Thorne. The untouchable VP of Marketing.

He sat down, pulled up his spreadsheets, and began to type. But he wasn’t seeing the numbers. He was seeing Marcus Thorne’s smug, arrogant face. The trap wasn't just set anymore. It had a name on it. And now, all he had to do was wait for the clock to strike 12:30.