Sandalwood

Rachel Simmons was a single mother struggling to stay afloat in America. She had 4 kids with her deadbeat, lowlife boyfriend Tony. One shitty Friday, Tony said that he was going out for a job interview and never came back. Rachel was left with their upside-down mortgage, car payments and an impossible full-time job: being a mother to 4 children.

Mr. DeMarcos knew all this. DeMarcos was a politician. He wore expensive suits and heavy leather shoes. DeMarcos strutted like a peacock in public. He stood for family values, and for the simpler times when the American dream was still alive.

Rachel knew of Mr. DeMarcos; DeMarcos was a state senator. She had voted for him in the last elections. Rachel Simmons hadn't thought about him since then. DeMarcos was doing a good job and he was popular with his constituents including Rachel. That is why Rachel was so surprised to see DeMarcos standing in her driveway after she returned from the Food Lion chain of grocery stores.

DeMarcos was wearing a Brioni suit. It looked every bit as expensive as it probably was. His Louis Vuitton loafers shone brightly in the sun. Rachel walked over to him, perplexed. DeMarcos handed her a note and without saying a word, strutted out of the driveway and into his nearby limousine.

Rachel went inside and read the note. The note was a list of instructions and detailed an appointment to meet DeMarcos after nightfall. Rachel carefully followed the instructions in the note, packing a briefcase as DeMarcos asked and waiting for him to return after dark.

About two hours after sunset, there was a rap on the door. Rachel saw DeMarcos through the ornamental glass window of her home. She let him in. Without saying a word, DeMarcos took the briefcase and set it on her countertop. He lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. Rachel dimmed the lights and admired DeMarcos in the now-smoky kitchen.

DeMarcos depressed both buttons on the briefcase, releasing its latches and exposing its contents. He reached in with both hands, gripping two massive handfuls of the 70%/30% hamburger meat that he had asked Rachel to pack inside. He rubbed his meat-filled hands all over his face, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. Like a man possessed, DeMarcos grabbed more and more meat from the family pack in the suitcase and mushed it into his face. Rachel Simmons said nothing. In the background, a baby was crying.

DeMarcos looked her in the eye with an unblinking, meaty stare that would haunt her for days afterward. He counted out $5000 in $100 bills and left them on the counter. DeMarcos then strutted out of the house, his leather shoes clip-clopping on the tile floor. Chunks of meat sloughed off of him and dropped on to the floor. He pulled the door shut behind himself and left without saying a word.

She knew DeMarcos would be back. "Just one more time," Rachel reassured herself. "Just one more time."