One Spoon of Lard Turned the World Against Me

The pain whited out my vision, and somewhere over me a cheer went up.

"Good! Smash it! Trash like him deserves a beating!"

That broke me. Hands shaking, I dialed the sheriff's department.

A few deputies showed up fast, and the second they saw me ringed by the mob, they roared.

"Everybody back off! Anyone who throws another punch, I'm hauling them in!"

The crowd shrank back under the deputies, and someone pulled me to my feet.

I grabbed at it like the last branch over a cliff, shouting.

"Officers! Please, please help me!"

"They've all gone crazy! They wrecked my place for no reason, and they beat me bloody!"

That set them off on the spot, and they marched the worst of the troublemakers back to the station.

In the interview room, the deputy taking my statement asked patiently what had started it.

I was half out of my mind. "I don't even know what happened!"

"Around lunch today, a customer ordered the stir-fried seasonal greens."

"The plate hit the table, and out of nowhere he was screaming I was an animal, that I'd actually used lard. And then my wife—"

I never finished. There was a slam.

He brought his hand down hard on the table and shouted in my face.

"Lard! You're telling me you cooked with lard!"

My heart jumped, and I nodded, trembling, dread crawling up my spine.

Before I could get another word out, his face had already twisted.

"You've got the nerve to play the victim, to smear decent people!"

"The real pervert who belongs behind bars is you!"

It hit me like a lightning strike, and I froze where I sat.

And then he hurled it at me: premeditated murder.

I sat there stunned, white-faced, fighting back. "No! I don't understand. How is cooking with lard against the law? Who did I kill?"

They wouldn't give me a chance to explain a thing. I was detained right there.

The reason: I'd cooked with lard.

The whole thing felt insane, and I argued it out on the spot, but it changed nothing.

The next day, Marian bailed me out.

She didn't bother to look at me, just signed and turned to go.

I lost it. Like a madman I chased after her and clamped onto her sleeve.

"Marian, is this you? Did you do this?"

"Why is everyone treating me like this? What did you do?"

She frowned and shook my hand off, her eyes full of disgust.

"I did this to you?"

"Miles Gilbert, you do something wrong and you can't even see it. You're beyond saving."

With that she pulled a document from her bag and shoved it hard against my chest.

"I only came to tell you. The divorce suit's already been filed with the court."

"The hearing's in three days. This marriage is over, and there's no changing it."

Then she walked away without looking back.

I stood there, and the tears came down on their own.

Eight years married, and now she looked at me like she was looking at garbage.

But the more it went like this, the more I needed the truth.

I refused to believe all of it was just coincidence!

The moment I left the station, I went straight into a private investigation agency.

"Look into something for me. I'll pay whatever it costs!"

The man watched the security footage from my diner and looked taken aback.

"You're telling me all those people attacked you over one dish?"

I nodded and chose my words carefully. "Yeah. I cooked it with lard."

He didn't blow up the way I'd braced for. Instead he frowned, puzzled.

"That's bizarre. Who flies off the handle over what oil you fry your food in?"

A wild rush of relief went through me. I'd finally found someone normal!

Just as I was about to walk him through the details,

he suddenly recoiled like he'd seen a ghost and flung my bank card in my face.

"Get the hell out. I don't touch dirty money like yours!"

I just stood there, dumbstruck.

Before I could even process it, security hauled me out of the agency by force.

Out on the street, I noticed people everywhere pointing and whispering at me.

I pulled out my phone, and the blood went cold all through my body.

The internet was buried under posts tearing into me.

"Scumbag owner cooks with lard, give him the death penalty!"

Shaking with fury, I tried to argue, and all I got back was wilder abuse.

But I read through every insult and still couldn't tell why they were cursing me.

The next few days, I had nowhere to go.

At a hotel, the front desk scanned my ID and her face changed in an instant.

"Out! We don't serve scum like you here!"

I went to rent a place, and the landlord came at me with a mop to drive me off.

I stumbled back, knocked over a trash can, and went down into a heap of reeking garbage.