[WP] In your jurisdiction, the last meal before a death sentence must be given to you exactly as requested. The only requirement is that it must be composed of only food, utensils, and dishes. Using this, you hatch a plan to escape...

italics25 Ever since I been in here, I been thinkin’. And thinkin’ gets you places, sometimes, and maybe I’m just too good at that… ‘Cause that’s how I got here. Ha. If only you knew. Man, if only you knew.
I’m gonna die in this place, not gonna be able to see friends. Not gonna be able to see my scrappin’, barkin’, teeth mashin’ mutt Russel again. He’s Jack Russel terrier and somethin’ else, probably somethin’ like El Chupacabra. That little bastard is my best damn friend.
Naw, but at least he ain’t gonna know I died. Dogs don’t get death. Ha. Maybe that’s why he was my best friend. Only best friend I ever had. And how ‘bout my boy?
But I’m gettin’ a li’l sidetracked now.
I been thinkin’ in here, hard.
‘Bout shit you pigs get by with legally.
‘Bout shit I done before, too, mind you.
And you mother fuckers won’t see it comin’.
Ha. *italics* The man lifted his heavy-lidded eyes up toward the sky, a piece of paper gripped tightly in his two hands. It was blinding in the sunlight, the jet black ink harsh against the paper. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and lowered his face as he exhaled.
“God damn it, Dad.”
Hesitantly, he gripped the foremost piece of paper between his index and thumb. He didn’t want to flip it. But this was the note that his father left the penitentiary security guards to find as they cleaned his cell. With another sigh, and a look of apprehension, he flipped to the next page.
I been thinkin’, just thinkin’, and damn do I do that too much these days. I been thinkin’ ‘bout killing you, li’l piggy, and I’mma tell you how. But they told me I need to make a list, and here’s what I want:
1) One knife. A steak knife. A steak knife to stab that fat piggy hand.
2) Two steaks. Rare, li’l piggy, and slathered in fat. Two rare steaks to represent that meat of yours, boy.
3) Napkins. Three napkins to wipe your li’l nose when you cry, mister piggy, ‘cause I’m gonna hurt you bad.
Ha. You don’t believe me? Huh. *italics*

With taut lips, and a gaunt shadow cast over his face, the man turned to the next one.
Well, there’s gonna be a hair in my steak, better fuckin’ believe it, and you’re gonna have to come see it. You’ll lean over, and stick your hand on the table. I know ‘cause you’re top heavy, wee pig.
And that hand will be stabbed through in almost a second, and that knife across your neck in another. You’ll be dead, fuckin’ piggy, I guarantee it. And I’ll have had dinner and a show. *italics*

/r/WritingPrompts Thread