[ WP ] Your co-worker accidentally drinks your truth serum .

[ I have n't written on writing prompts before, so I hope you enjoy my first online shared work! ] 
 
 I was sick of John stealing my pickles that I left in the fridge to eat on lunch break. That's why I did it- I know I should n't have- it was cruel. I ca n't bear to say it but, I may or may not have poisoned him. Yeah, I poisoned him. To be admitted, as terrible as I was, I must admit that it was the funniest thing to ever happen in our boring office life. Lunch came as usual, and my pickles were gone. The plan worked, he must have taken them, of course he did, he always did, why would n't he? He ate my pickles, pretended it was n't him, but you can smell it on his breath. Yes, you can smell the pickles on his breath. The garlicky, dilly, sour, salty, stench of pickles was in his mouth and on my mind and out of the fridge. That's when the truth serum kicked in. 
 
 `` Rebecca, I love you, I always have, for years I've worked here, and have n't seen you pass by without wishing I could be with you.'' 
 
 John was married. 
 
 `` Aw, I have n't gone out to meet Hannah in weeks! My wife gives it bad, I need someone to give it to me good.'' 
 
 See above. 
 
 `` Hey, boss man, you think you're so special? Well guess what? You're so dumb, I've been banging you wife, Hannah, for years while you're out of town!'' 
 
 Uh oh. 
 
 `` GET OUT OF MY OFFICE. AND DO N'T EXPECT TO BE ABLE TO COME BACK!'' 
 
 It really is a shame. The boss is a good man, even if he is strict. He gets work done. I like that. I like a guy that gets work done. I like a guy that can do that. 
 
 `` Well FINE!! And, Zach, I stole your pickles, and I am not even sorry. They tasted delicious.'' 
 
 So I took out my stapler, and bludgeoned the man to death right there, right in front of everyone, for taking my pickles, and for not being sorry, and for disrespecting the delicious, delicate, special, personal, exclusive, extraordinary, pickles. I love the pickles. I want the pickles. I need the pickles. The pickles loved me. They did n't want me to go to jail. But the bad men did. The bad men that hated pickles. They have no respect for the pickles. And that's why I'm writing to you, mom, from jail. 
 
 Love, 
 Zach 
 
 P.S. Prison has super bad pickles. Send me some? Please. PLEASE. 
 
 [ Inspired by Edgar Allen Poe's writing. Thank you for reading. Please give feedback, I'd love to hear what you think. ]
