Last Meal Before My Execution: A Scenario

I'd have my final meal at The French Laundry, a legendary restaurant that you have to make a reservation at months in advance if you want a table. This is less of a list of food, but more of a meal experience. (This is written under the idea that i get whatever the hell i want and have free reign over my entire experience and not have to answer for any of it.)

It would have to be at 8:00 PM, on a Friday in late summer. I'd sit down at the table in the center of the dining room surrounded by the richest, most tasteful, most powerful people in the world, shackled and in my orange prison uniform, and just order food until they didn't have any left. I'd order things that aren't even on the menu and make them cook all of it for me, then throw it on the floor or onto someone else's lap. I'd steal food from the plates of the obscenely rich family seated next to me and rub it up and down my (now naked) body as i lay spread-eagled on the white tablecloth. I'd drink too. I'd order a glass of their most expensive champagne and a glass of coke, then mix the two in my mouth and spray it all over my waiter's starched white uniform.

For the wine i'd drink like Caligula must've drank, purposefully spilling it all over myself until i'm emptying $5,000 bottles over my food-caked body, two at a time. I'd get drunk as fuck on cheap vodka i brought with me that i drink straight from the bottle in front of the precious, innocent children of an oil billionaire. I'd tell the filthiest jokes i know loudly, and to no one in particular. Eventually, after i'm drunk enough, i'll just start belting out profanities at the top of my lungs, flinging bits of food-spittle out of my roaring jaws. I'd vomit on someone's trophy wife, then try to hit on her. If her powerful, opulently wealthy husband objects, the prison guards that have been brought along to supervise will remove him from the restaurant. He’ll not be welcome at The French Laundry henceforth.

I will not stop stuffing my face (not necessarily my mouth) until i've racked up at least a 6-figure tab. I will ask for the bill and pour the last splash of my vodka onto it, and leave the empty plastic bottle and its twist-off cap on the table as the tip, slapping the restaurant's owner on the ass on my way out as i belch in their face. If i'm allowed to drive back to death row, I'll do it in a Bentley and i'll drive on the left side of the road, leaning my naked handcuffed body out the window all the way back. The prison will provide me with the sunglasses of my choosing for this drive. I'll park in the warden's spot and stroll back in the door, naked and coated in food and sauces and wine.

I think if i were allowed to do that, i'd grin all the way to the gas chamber, and probably still be grinning in hell once i got there.