Pizza Toppings | Flash Fiction

Photo by Evelyn on Unsplash

“I like hats.” That’s what Donald said the day before he killed Sally. I mean, really, don’t you think it should’ve been something more sinister, something that would’ve given a slight clue to the depths of Tartarus that lay under his skin? Alfred and I were arguing over pizza toppings when we got the news. It didn’t feel real, it felt like something from a show, something a twisted soul brooding in the darkness for too long would’ve done, not Donald. I mean, we’ve all done bad things. Tony cut off someone’s finger for baseball tickets and I cheated on my wife; okay, so maybe it was more than once, but that’s beside the point. The point is that most regular folks, like me, and Tony, and Donald are pretty good people. I can’t speak for Alfred, his idea of a good pizza topping is mushrooms, so you can draw your own conclusions. Why am I talking about pizza toppings at a time like this? The main thing is that Donald wouldn’t hurt a fly, at least, that’s what we thought. They say it was the hole in his sock that finally made him snap. As far as motivations go, that one is pretty lame. Yes, there were holes in all his socks, but that’s still not enough to kill someone over, right? I already miss Sally. She was the glue of our group. Thursday pizza nights won’t ever be the same without her begging for pepperonis and scratching up Tony’s jeans. Why did Donald have to kill his cat?