Chapter 4: Operation Hell's Pantry

Chapter 4: Operation Hell's Pantry

Friday night descended upon the summer dorms with a profound quiet. The hallways, usually echoing with the muffled bass of music or loud chatter, were still. Most of the other students had already fled for the weekend, seeking refuge at home or on road trips. For Alex, it was the perfect cover. His own duffel bag sat packed by the door, a prop for his alibi—a planned weekend trip to visit his parents. But he wasn’t leaving just yet. He had one last project to complete.

The communal kitchen was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the overhead fluorescent lights. It was after midnight. Alex stood in the center of the room, the silence a stark contrast to the roaring in his ears. This was it. The point of no return. His desire for a quiet, simple resolution had been torched and salted by Chad himself. Now, all that was left was action.

From a small, locked case he’d brought from the lab, Alex retrieved his tools. The vial of 250,000 SHU capsaicin oleoresin felt heavy in his hand, its honey-colored contents looking thick and malevolent under the harsh light. He also had a small, fine-mist atomizer, a sterile insulin syringe still in its plastic sheath, and a delicate artist's brush. Finally, he snapped on a pair of tight, blue nitrile gloves, the sound sharp and definitive in the silence. He pulled an N95 mask over his face, the kind he used for weighing fine powders in the lab. Frank’s voice echoed in his head: “Treat it like a hazardous material, because it is.”

The dorm room kitchen, a place of petty theft and frustration, had just become his clandestine laboratory.

His first target was the cereal. He knew Chad had a habit of grabbing a massive bowl for a late-night snack. Alex had bought a new, family-sized box of Frosted O’s, an irresistible beacon of sugary childhood comfort. He carefully sliced the seal on the inner bag with a gloved finger. Holding the atomizer over the opening, he hesitated for only a second. Was this too much? The image of Chad’s sneering face as he poured the jalapeño chips into the trash flashed in his mind. The unwritten rule.

His hesitation vanished.

He gave the atomizer three quick pumps. A vaporous, almost invisible mist settled over the top layer of colorful Os. There was no smell beyond the sweet, grainy scent of the cereal itself, but Alex knew that a fine, fiery dust of pure retribution now coated every surface. He carefully folded the bag’s opening, slid it back into the box, and placed it on the ‘communal’ shelf, a Trojan horse awaiting its glutton.

Next, the milk. This felt personal. This was the one that had escalated the conflict from simple theft to psychological warfare. Chad had left him an empty carton, rinsed clean, as a trophy. Alex would return the favor. He took out the new gallon of whole milk he’d purchased, a duplicate of the one Chad had stolen. He uncapped the syringe, the needle glinting. With the precise movements of a trained chemist, he pierced the thin plastic of the carton, just below the cap’s seal where the pinprick would be almost invisible.

He drew a single milliliter of the viscous capsaicin from its vial. It was a minuscule amount, a teardrop of liquid fire. He depressed the plunger, injecting the oleoresin directly into the milky depths. A faint, oily swirl of gold bloomed for a second before dissolving into the opaque white. He imagined it dispersing, a million microscopic heat-bombs lying in wait. He withdrew the needle, the tiny hole barely visible. He placed the milk in the front of the fridge, right at eye level. An offering to the god of arrogance.

Then came the chips. The catalyst. The final insult. He’d bought another family-sized bag of kettle-cooked jalapeño chips. Chad wouldn’t be able to resist the irony. Alex opened the bag, the familiar, spicy scent filling the air. This time, he was more generous with the atomizer. He sprayed the interior of the bag thoroughly before giving the chips themselves a generous misting. Then, he held the bag closed and shook it vigorously, the rattling sound echoing in the kitchen. He could almost hear Frank’s voice in his head, chuckling. “Ensure even distribution for an optimal sensory experience.” He placed the bag on his own shelf this time, a direct challenge. A trap laid in plain sight.

For his final touch, a stroke of genius inspired by Frank’s offhand comments about topical applications, he targeted the sodas. He’d seen Chad’s mini-fridge stocked with cans of cheap cola. During a moment Chad had left his dorm room door ajar, Alex had noted the brand. He’d bought a six-pack of the same kind.

He took out the artist’s brush, dipping the fine tip ever so slightly into the vial. He carefully, meticulously, painted a thin, nearly invisible layer of the oleoresin around the rim of each can’s opening, right where a mouth would press to drink. The oily liquid clung to the aluminum, a transparent sheen of pure malice. It was a delayed-action mine. The cool, sugary rush of the soda would hit first, a moment of satisfaction, right before the fire bloomed on the lips and tongue. It was diabolical. It was perfect. He placed the cans back in their cardboard carrier and set them on the communal counter with a note that said, “Free for whoever wants them!”

His work was done. The kitchen was no longer a neutral space. It was a minefield, and every single explosive was calibrated specifically for Chad Miller.

Alex meticulously cleaned his tools. The syringe and brush were sealed in a Ziploc bag. The gloves and mask went into another. He packed them deep within his laundry at the bottom of his duffel bag, to be disposed of far away from here. He left no evidence. A scientist cleans his station.

He stood one last time, looking at the scene. The box of cereal, the gallon of milk, the bag of chips, the six-pack of soda. They looked so innocent, so normal. An ordinary spread of dorm-room junk food. But Alex knew the truth. It was a banquet of consequences. A symphony of pain waiting for its conductor.

He picked up his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the kitchen without a backward glance. As he locked his dorm room door behind him, the quiet of the hallway felt different. It felt charged, like the calm before a thunderstorm. He hadn't seen the explosion, but he had lit the fuse. Now, all he had to do was walk away and wait for the boom. The lesson was officially in session.