"Wing Ding-a Ding Ding," he sang softly to himself. "Wing-a Ding Ding Ding."
With the tongs, he selected a golden brown chicken wing from a pan in the oven. Carefully, gingerly, he placed it upon a large platter on the table beside him. The platter was already overflowing with dozens and dozens of chicken wings.
"Wing-a-Ding chicken wing, Wing-a-Ding-a-Ding Ding" he continued to sing, pausing to chuckle under his breath. "Chicken wing ding ding."
The door swung open and Sans entered. Despite his perpetual smile, he was visibly flustered. "Gaster, what the hell are you doing?"
Gaster hummed and deposited the last wing on the platter. He turned to his assistant with the tongs still in his hand. "Why, preparing a plate of chicken wings, of course!"
Sans' eyes went to the heaping platter of wings. He couldn't help but feel a bit jealous; they had been cooked perfectly. But now was not the time to admire Gaster's culinary expertise. "You're not working? You know we have a skele-ton of work to do." Not only was he required by contract to crack a pun at least once per hour, it helped to get Gaster's attention at times like these. "Construction on the Core hasn't even started yet."
"I assure you that I am working quite diligently, my son." Gaster turned to one of the many refrigerators lining the wall and opened the door, revealing shelves filled to the brim with raw chicken wings. He began to select them, one by one, and lovingly line them up in a tray waiting on the oven. All of this Sans watched with a strange mixture of horror, indignation and, finally, resigned acceptance. "This is a task of utmost importance."
Sans sighed and put his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. "Where did you get all these wings, anyway?"
"THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT!" Gaster snapped, and whipped his body around to fix his tiny white pinprick glare on Sans. Those tongs were suddenly threatening, and Sans raised his hands in a disarming gesture. Gaster didn't seem to take notice, however. He turned back to his wings and muttered, "You never ask the questions that truly matter, Sans. What must be known. What must be understood in this world..." Glancing back over his shoulder he added, "That's why you are not fit to be the royal scientist."
Sans looked to the raw chicken wings being arranged and back to the arranger several times. His gaze wandered to the refrigerators as he realized the full extent of the situation at hand. He was tempted to open one, but restrained himself for fear of further incurring the wrath of Gaster. He didn't need to look, anyway; he knew deep down that his boss had filled them all. And he knew that at the moment, he was utterly helpless to change that fact. So he merely observed, silent, as Gaster cooked chicken wings in the dimly lit laboratory.
Several moments passed like this, utterly still but for the scientist's meticulous movements, utterly silent but for the clicking of metal tongs. Gradually, a voice rose from the towering figure, until it reached its previous volume. "Wing Ding, chicken wing... Wing-a-Ding Ding Ding." It was as if Sans had never interrupted.
And so the skeleton backed slowly out of the room, and quietly closed the door. It was another one of those days. He had a lot of work to do.