"Eat your greens!"
Your weary eyes surveyed the length of your bland surroundings, reluctantly taking in the dowdy combination of monochromatic design schemes and the unrelenting chill of industrial strength refrigeration systems, so potent one could sample the taste of "freezer burn" from the air alone.
"Ate your greens!"
You could not be certain whether it was the panoramic intent of your gaze or the pique of your interest that finally led you to gazing upon what could be considered the veritable centerpiece of your misery, as the rhythmic proclamations of proper nutrition had perhaps become so grating on your nerves that you had been forced to adopt a mantra of "ignorance is bliss"— What chanting?What greens? — to endure its incessant nature, but of one sentiment you could be absolutely sure: fuck salad bars.
A few months ago at the Back 2 School Bash, you had found yourself absolutely exuberant to discuss the liberal policies of your new principal with anyone who would bother to listen across a mountain of give-away notebooks, ancient No. 2 pencils, and photocopies of the Food Guide Pyramid . Now, with your eyes fixated on the aforementioned fruit and veggie spread, you were seriously regretting ever speaking a word of his praise. The salad bar was a minimalist buffet at best, bejeweled by divisions of wilting iceberg lettuce leaves; tiny plastic cups overflowing with blanched celery sticks and carrot stubs, accompanied by packets of ranch dressing too small to make the endeavor truly worth it; meager offerings of sliced tomatoes, black olives, and limp shreds of cheddar cheese; and sealed containers of cubed "fruit medley" suspended in pale, orange juice, put forth as a pitiful contribution towards the "2-4 servings" of the fruit you were supposed to acquire daily. Though this selection was astonishing in itself, what truly distinguished the salad bar from the rest of the room was its ostentation. Holiday-themed decorations were known to moonlight the exposed edges of visible counter-space within the room and rotate seasonally, but at the salad bar the trimming was never changing, never festive. The health department representatives that had come and gone throughout your short career had always paid a great deal of attention to the festoonery here. Similar to what one would find as the focal point to their grandmother's dinner table, the salad bar featured two, symmetrically placed wooden bowls of wax fruit. Nestled between the crooks of off-color pears and thinning grape stems existed a couple of gaunt orange faces—somewhat like corporeal jack-o-lanterns carved from carrots whom had surely taken first place at the State Fair once upon a time. You often found it infuriating that any letter grade short of an "A" to be received from the health department came at the complaint of the visible layers of dust accumulating upon the faux fruit, rather than at the incessant chatter of gnarled mouths, situated mere inches from the food.
"Eat your greens!"
The sing-song repetition of their commands were ceaseless—day in and day out, child after child, faculty member after faculty member—dating back to the dawn of humankind and monsterkind integration some three and a half months ago. Your principal had immediately jumped on the bandwagon of cohabitation and made swift work of persuading the board to change their enrollment policy to better fit the parameters of educational equality for all sentient creatures. The community's reaction, though initially hesitant, was exceptionally warm after human children started bringing home friendly little monsterkind companions or bragging about the kindness of their new, nonhuman teachers. You had offhandedly heard the buzz about the new biology teacher whose gentle demeanor had won the hearts of her colleagues and whose exemplary culinary skills had tamed the stomachs of her voracious homeroom class, and had experienced for yourself the kindness of some of the new students. One such Monster Kid, willing to identify themselves solely by the aforementioned descriptor, had been particularly polite to you every time they slid past, lunch tray in hand. Knowing all of this, however, was not enough to justify the existence of Vegetoids in your mind.
"Ate your greens!"
Your blood came to a fine boil as you forced your attention away from the strident pair, each of them sporting a mischievous smile that you could have sworn was just for you, and returned your attention to the matter at hand less you lose what remained of your sanity. The rim of your thick, black hairnet made your forehead itch, the plastic, food-handler's gloves that adorned your hands were cheaply made and ordered a size too small for comfort, and the weight of the silver ladle in your hands was nothing compared to the weight of your shoulders, which seemed to become all the more heavy with each passing of the word "greens," no matter how much you strained to ignore it.
"Can I have an extra breadstick, please?"
You lowered your ladle into the vat of meaty paste beneath you, suppressing a grimace as it broke through crusty surface of today's entrée. Upon retrieval, you delivered the hefty spoonful to the child's pale pink tray with an audible splat.
"No can do, kid. Gotta make sure there's enough to go around." You responded before outfitting their plate with a thin stick of lightly seasoned garlic bread, a precious part of the handful you had left. The kid shot you a faint smile of appreciation, despite your lack of compliance with their lunchtime needs, before scooting along in pursuit of a fruit cup. A sigh escaped you as he went on his way. The lunch line was dwindling and the lot of the children had relocated to the seating portion of the cafeteria. The worst part of your day was almost over, and certainly with lunch halfway over it could not possibly get any worse than this.
"I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAVE ARRIVED. ALL WILL CLAMOR AT THE CHANCE TO DINE WITH MY GREATNESS!"
Oh, God. Had you spoken too soon?
"i hate tibia bummer," a second voice began, pausing for effect. "but we gotta eat by ourselves, or with toriel."
"WHAAAT? WHY THE HECK NOT?"
You grimaced at the addition of two new occupants within the room, and sized them up in accordance to your displeasure. Not only were they monsters, but they were just as—no, arguably louder than the Vegetoids themselves. The taller of the two was lanky in bone structure and flamboyant in dress. His attire boasted the aesthetic duality of 1/2 "Anime Protagonist" what with his flashy red boots, gloves, and scarf, and 1/2 "MTV Background Dancer" in lieu of his white crop top and plain blue speedo. In comparison, the other skeleton radiated a far more lackadaisical vibe: white tee, blue hoodie, black basketball shorts, and, not to mention, a far stouter build. "'cause staff has gotta stick with staff," the shorter skeleton began as the pair drew closer to your place of business. Your interest was immediately piqued by this bit of information. Staff? So they were faculty members you had yet to hear anything of...
"OH, OF COURSE! ONLY THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS OF SCHOLARS CAN KEEP UP WITH THE QUICK WIT OF THE GREAT PAPYRUS!" The taller skeleton-who you presumed to be "The Great Papyrus" - proclaimed proudly. His announcement was followed promptly by a breathy round of "nyeh, nyeh, nyeh."
It was not long before you found yourself eye to eye with these bare boned gentlemen, as they had sauntered up to the entree line without so much as a passing glance towards the salad bar or cooler full of milk crates. It was just as well, anyway, as few creatures dared to pursuit the soggy little cartoons of 99.9% disgustingly frozen milk.
"HUMAN CHEF," the Papyrus fellow called as he squinted his eye sockets at you. "PLEASE SUPPLY MY BROTHER AND I WITH THE FINEST OF YOUR DISHES! PERHAPS A PIE THING?"
You blanched at the grandiloquence of his request. Did he actually think the school budget was fancy enough to afford options?
"It's spaghetti Tuesday, mister," you began, your tone of voice riddled with the kind of droll regard you allotted for your most annoying of associates as you listlessly transported a wad of greasy pasta to his lunch tray. "Take it, or leave it."
A dusting of pale pink besmirched his chiseled cheek bones as he shifted from foot to foot. "S-SPAGHETTI? ARE YOU F-FLIRTING WITH ME?"
Your ladle hit the cold tile of the ground beneath you with a clang. "FLIRTING?" You gasped, desperately willing blood not to rush to your cheeks. "I'm just trying to give you some pasta..." you rushed out nervously.
If at all possible, the skeleton's blush deepened. "IS IT POSSIBLE ALL OF MY STANDARDS HAVE BEEN MET, AGAIN?"
"bro, you only have one standard," the shorter skeleton added, obviously amused by your current predicament. He paused for a moment, and it appeared to you that he might have some internal war waging over the correct way to address the situation. You waited with bated breath for this fellow, seemingly the sensible one, to save you. "i wouldn't say it's a real skele-ton."
Despite the severity of the situation, you could have sworn you saw the shorter skeleton wink. Goddamn it.