I wrote this on a plane, and that has no bearing on absolutely anything.
Every birthday of mine, I enjoy a nice meal at my favorite restaurant: The Melting Pot. Perhaps you've been there. Anyways, because of this, I associate life with The Melting Pot. With life comes death, so the idea of a murderer enjoying a meal there seemed personally ironic.
The rest of the story just developed in my head thereafter, because everything needs a beginning and an end.
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