I love being a cafeteria lunch lady, Grover thought to himself as he happily hummed his way down to the kitchens. On this particular misty morning, his cloven hooves stuck damply to the foam inserts in his brown derby lace-ups. Mostly, I love enchilada day.
This was true of course. On all other days, the satyr was relegated to nibbling on his shoe inserts, but not today. Spooning buckets of government issued slop onto worn down kids' platters was not Grover's idea of a "good time," but every now and then the stars would align, and enchilada day would fall from the heavens right into his titanium stomach. Those greasy little kids don't deserve enchiladas. They were rightfully all his: by blood, by birth, and by virtue.
At least, Grover believed this to be true with every fiber of his being.
His mitted hands grasped the edge of the oven and peered in. They were almost ready. Just a few more minutes and the freshly baked flatbread would be ready for work. Its seductive aroma shot through his nostrils sending Grover on an epileptic fit of orgasmic ecstasy. His mind fractured into a thousand fuzzy pieces; he drooled everywhere.
"Grover! Stop doddeling and git those enchiladas workin' boy! We ain't got all day!" a lunch lady barked at him. Her portly frame glowered at him from behind the stoves, interrupting his psychedelic enchilada trip.
Damn her, he thought. Gluttonous pig will steal what is mine. His eyes narrowed maliciously, quiet paranoia seeping into his thoughts.
"Yes ma'am, right away ma'am," he dutifully replied. Grover would not let her eat his delicious enchiladas. If need be he'd eat the ingredients right then and there and make a delicious Mexican cuisine deep in the bowels of his gut.
Making sure not to arouse suspicion, he carefully laid the flatbreads horizontally along the counter. There were five rows of twelve: not enough to satiate his starvation, but enough to tide him over until next week. First came the sauce. It wasn't just any sauce; it was handmade Aztecan fiery hot maize paste: a secret stolen from Montezuma himself.
Grover ladled it onto the flatbreads, careful to cover every edge in delicious sauce. His masterpiece was coming to fruition; the foundation laid, he carefully distributed a black bean center to each enchilada. His beans had been cooking slowly overnight in a small crockpot to the side. No one disturbed Grover's beans anymore, as they'd learned the hard way much too quickly.
Only he knew the secrets to this recipe, and for that he guarded it with his life. Next, the cheese, he decided. I need the perfect amount to hit the sweetspot of sauce-bean-cheese ratio. His furry hands trembled gently as he carefully sprinkled a fine shred of artisan vegan cheese blend over each enchilada. The dull red and black circles lining the counter soon popped with orange and yellow brilliance. Delicious.
It was time for the secret ingredient: lemon juice mixed with an oniony cream-cheese paste. This is what made Grover the animal he was. The rambunctious zest of the citrus-sour-sweet concoction he had developed in secret was the pinnacle of culinary art. Soon he would be in the so called "Flavor Town."
A dash of finely chopped lettuce later, and Grover found himself with sixty perfect enchiladas. They glowed magnificently in the dimly lit kitchen, the hanging lamps swinging excitedly at what he'd done. Soon it would be time to serve, but first he needed that meddlesome wench out of his way.
"Oh Marsha?" he called.
"What'ya want?" came her accented growl.
"I believe our esteemed Principle has called for you," Grover cooed. "It seems urgent."
The weathered woman lifted her head from her attempt to open a box of frozen fishsticks. "As if I don't have enough to do already…" she grumbled. "Hurry up and get these fishsticks here into tha' oven." She eyed the enchiladas. "And you'd better git those damned 'ladas on the warmer before they dry up like a Kentucky summer."
A flash of rage danced between Grover's brow. Nobody told him what to do with his enchiladas. Especially not the old crow.
As soon as she was out of sight, he began to furiously wrap each one in thick tin foil, making extra care to not rip the tender flatbread. It only took one mistake for a catastrophe of sauce and beans to erupt onto the floor: a crisis Grover dearly wished to avoid. In no time each one was delicately placed into a small warming box.
The melting cheese slowly mixed with the bean paste. His special ingredient warmed, producing an intoxicating aroma that threatened to send him on another enigmatic journey. Just a few more minutes, he concluded. Just a little more, and all will be mine.
Ding!
They were done. After hours of preparation and impossible waiting, Grover's enchiladas were finally done. He glanced nervously at the clock above the oven, its spindly hands threatening every second. Soon it would be half-past noon: lunch time. His eyes clamped shut in anxiety, griping the edge of the counter for stability. Brief fleeting flashes of large-eyed kids, snot leaking from their unattended noses, shoveling his delicious enchiladas into their undeserving mouths crippled him into submission. He saw images of half-eaten flatbreads tossed into trash cans, left to rot on empty plates.
Grover's rage returned. They didn't deserve it. Those bastards didn't deserve his handmade craft, nor would they ever. His eyes bloodied themselves in anticipation: today Grover would get his sweet revenge. Today he would fina—
Ding!
The enchiladas were still in the warmer. Yes… His hands shook. Yes…yes that's right…YES. Those were his creations, not theirs. If anyone was to eat them, it should be him not them. Who else made them? Who else labored over the scalding ovens? Did the children go home with sore wrists and an aching neck from hours of perfect work? It was rightfully his, after all.
The warming box door flew open with a frenzy few have had to witness. The hairs on Grover's neck stood at attention, watching the despicable feast below. There was no time for him to unwrap each one; there was only time for the feast. Down they went, some whole, others chewed haphazardly—straight into his ravenous stomach. The foil only complimented his creation. The metallic lining served to insulate the heat and provide a sharp aftertaste to the hearty meal before him.
The enchiladas were gone in six minutes. He had unintentionally broken 32 different records across 185 countries, but that wasn't what was important to him right now. Grover could feel the beginning of one of his legendary food-comas. His eyes clouded with a hazy vignette, the room spun in circles and loops, orbiting the broken warming box which now lay on the floor.
The dark closed in, eating his vision with as much gusto as he had devoured his enchiladas.
…
"…how bad…it?"
"Unsure…ain't….no good…"
…
Grover's eyes focused briefly, then shuddered shut upon the onslaught of light. He could hear the distinct voice of his nemesis coworker and the regal tone of the Principle. Vague memories flitted before his mind, but none could he grasp. His coma seemed to have only abated for a moment.
"Chiron," he whispered.
The room fell silent, except for the familiar squeak of a wheelchair. "What is it, Grover?" came the confident reply.
"Chiron…" he mumbled. This was his chance. This was his guarantee back into the safety of his enchiladas. "Chiron…you dirty bastard…"
A gasp rebounded throughout the room.
Grover continued anyway. "I know you're a cent—"
Slam!
"You'll 'right?" Marsha quickly asked.
"My apologies, dear woman. I seemed to have dropped my book," the President calmly responded, picking up a large anthropology textbook. "I believe we should let Grover off with a warning."
"But—"
"No, there's really no reason to fire the poor fellow. A mistake is a mistake, after all."
"He ate tha' entire bunch of 'ladas an even broke my damned warmin' box!" she fumed.
"I won't discuss it again Marsha," his voice suddenly stern. "Now if you'd please take Grover to the infirmary, I have work to do."
The President slowly wheeled himself back over to his desk as Marsha grabbed the semi-unconscious figure by the shoulders and dragged him out the door. The last thing Grover saw was a slumped over man in a wheelchair, his eyes heavy with worry. A mischievous grin slid onto the satyr's sleeping face before the black took him.
I love enchilada day.