Disclaimer: I don't own ANYTHING.

A/N: Thank you so much for reviewing, I'm so happy you all are interested in the story! Especially the WSSC (you know who you are!) who have been anxiously waiting for the fic to be posted! I can halfway guarantee not all the chapters will be this freakishly long. I kinda had a little too much fun writing this one…Not sure when I'll get the next chapter up, but since this one was already written, I just decided to go ahead and post it. Hope you like it! Please R&R!

CHAPTER ONE: THE LUNCH LADY REGIME & CAFETERIA HEIST

Monday, September 7, 2009

Monday.

The start of a brand-spankin'-new week.

That, in and of itself, was not a very pleasant thing. Mondays royally sucked, and if you went here, the suckage was at least ten times worse. Especially when returning from summer break.

It was dawning on five-thirty, and the educational establishment was essentially just waking up. The head administrators hadn't arrived yet, but the maintenance staff was busy with last minute tasks, having been quite lazy over the long summer holiday. They'd complained that they weren't being paid enough to clean up after a bunch of good-for-nothing brats, and they didn't get good enough health benefits especially when people were dropping like flies around this place.

But I digress.

In the depths of the gourmet, restaurant-style kitchen, the lunch ladies were assembled around a rickety table with a dim overhead light. There were six of them, all dressed in generic clothing under their regulation black aprons and their hairnets secured onto their heads. An outsider wouldn't think anything of the assembly; the old women seemed innocent enough, looking more like kind, soft-spoken grandmothers. However, that wasn't quite the case. Appearances could, after all, be very deceiving. The "leader" was an old woman named Marge, who had worked at the school for almost two decades now. She was seated at the table sifting through the short stack of money that had to be placed in the cash register. Before the money could be put in said cash register, though, some business had to be taken care of among the lunch ladies.

Marge straightened the pile of bills using the surface of the table, and then tossed them lightly to the side as she leaned back in the squeaky, folding chair. Doris and Bertha were returning to their seats after prying open a nearby window and quickly lighting their cigarettes. Finally settled, the two of them each took a long drag, blowing the smoke in the direction of the opened window, similar to school girls sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom—just like the old days. Meanwhile, Gertrude, Phyllis, and Muriel were silently hoping Marge would conduct business soon, since they had a lot of work to do besides this.

The veteran lunch lady waited until she had the attention of the group—or, The Lunch Lady Regime, as they were known "under the table." Only the people they did business with were supposed to know about the title of their so-called organization. If anyone else by any chance knew the name and what they were up to, no one ever said a word about it to the Administration. Mainly, like everything in the school, it was out of fear. If you could create fear, you had power over the people who were scared shitless of you. The Regime had allies; friends in high places who could take you out Lunch Lady-Godfather style without a second thought. And they got pretty creative…

Marge cleared her throat louder than necessary. "All right. Same deal still stands from last year. We finance them, they protect us," the expert lunch lady and Regime leader announced in a heavy New York-esque accent that the rest of her comrades seemed to have as well. It was entirely too deep and raspy to fit her. "We keep our mouths shut, and they get rid of whoever tries to squeal. And we go on with our lives. Anyone have a problem with that?"

The lunch ladies nodded in agreement, affirming that they were fine with the deal remaining the same as it always had been. Carrying out deals with the various gang leaders was the only way they could survive in such a ruthless environment where the faculty and staff were picked off by the students, either killed or driven completely insane. They took comfort in knowing that their backs were still covered, especially since they'd made a few mistakes last year with holding up their end of the bargain—which had resulted in the termination of their former leader's position (they didn't talk about poor Wilma anymore).

While Marge proceeded to put the money aside in a special compartment within the cash register for safe keeping (so it could be used for whatever their allies needed), the rest of the Regime started to move about the kitchen to prepare for the day. Bertha snuffed out her cigarette, flinging it out the window. She then went to help Gertrude, Muriel, and Phyllis raid the refrigerators and the storage room in the back for the ingredients and supplies that were necessary for today's meals. In the interim, Doris stood by the window to finish smoking her cigarette. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she saw something on the floor that caught her interest. Upon further inspection, she discovered that it was a five dollar bill.

Thinking that Marge had somehow dropped it, she picked up the bill and began to approach the cash register outside the kitchen, by the lunch counter. Halfway there, she looked at it for a second time and found something unusual about it. Cursing her glasses for not allowing her to see properly, Doris held the five up to her face, peering over the rims of her spectacles. What she saw rendered her confused and slightly startled. On Lincoln's face, the eyes had been circled thickly in black Sharpie, while the mouth had an eerie, over exaggerated smile drawn in bright red marker.

Doris exited the kitchen through the set of doors closest to the lunch counter. Marge was putting the money safely inside the register.

"Hey, Marge, where'd this come from?"

Slamming the compartment shut, Marge turned sharply, squinting to see what Doris was talking about. Upon seeing the vandalized piece of currency, she simply shrugged.

"It's not ours."

"D'you think it's a warning?" Phyllis inquired timidly, moving out of the doors toward Marge and Doris with her hands on her hips.

Bertha had overheard the conversation from several feet away, and joined them, chiming in with, "Nah, probably some stupid brat's idea of fun. Just throw it in the register."

Shrugging, Doris took Bertha's advice and placed the five dollar bill into the cash register with the rest of the day's money, made sure the whole thing was locked, and then went to work. Muriel switched on the radio after she'd started on a large pot of homemade pasta sauce, tuning into the local oldies station. A song came over static-y—no one felt like messing with antenna; a futile battle that was usually lost—but it filled the huge room with a nice, uplifting melody. The lunch ladies were so engrossed in their matronly duties and light conversation that they never heard what was happening beyond the thick, steel doors of the kitchen before it was too late.

A black minivan screeched to a deafening half in front of the outside cafeteria doors, clouds of smoke billowing from the muffler and noises emanating from it that clearly weren't healthy. The van produced a sufficient amount of pollution to add to the layer of smog perpetually hanging over Gotham, and had enough left over to burn a deep and lasting hole in the ozone layer. As if causing chaos and destruction within the high school at their boss' orders wasn't dramatic enough, the occupants inside the vehicle had to take it a step further and add to the global warming crisis.

The piece of crap belonged in a junk yard, to put it simply. It was missing a hubcap, and one of the windows was covered in black plastic garbage bags and half a roll of duct tape. One of the doors didn't match the rest of the vehicle in color, and the back hatch of the trunk had some sort of graffiti on it.

If they were trying to be inconspicuous, they weren't succeeding. Not they gave a crap. They'd…uh…borrowed the car from a collision shop a few blocks away and they'd ditch it when they were through with their job.

Inside the van, five teenage boys were dressed in dark clothing, all wearing inexpensive variations of clown masks purchased the previous weekend at a party supply store. The shelves had been stocked since June for Halloween to get a jumpstart on the holiday sales. Even though they'd been marked down, the teenagers had shoplifted them from the store. No way were they wasting $4.79 on a crappy mask. That was valuable snack-buying money! They rarely paid for those, either. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

The boy in the middle of the backseat was munching contentedly on a breakfast burrito he'd bought during their early morning fast-food run (it wasn't good to cause any sort of mayhem on an empty stomach), his clown mask pulled upward, resting on the top of his head. His noisy chewing was detected by the teenage clown in the driver's seat, who twisted around awkwardly to glare at his comrade through the plastic disguise. The clown who'd played chauffer and had graciously made that fast-food stop for his hungry colleagues in crime when he didn't have to (the Boss certainly wouldn't have), racked his brain for the other boy's code name. He honestly couldn't remember any of their given names—not even his own. The Boss didn't have any use for their real first names and had therefore passed out alter-egos of sorts to each of them.

Sleepy? Happy? Grumpy? Or was he Grumpy? What the hell was it…?

He doubted the Boss would even remember. And like everything in this "line of work," it really didn't matter anyway.

"Dopey," he called, finally settling on a name. "You done yet? We don't got all day to be waiting for your fat ass. The Boss'll be pissed if he shows up and we ain't doin' our job."

"He won't show." 'Dopey' said with a mouth full of breakfast burrito. He shifted his position, leaning back further in the seat, dropping bits of food all over himself. He crossed his legs at the ankles, rustling the empty wrappers from himself and the guys that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor. "There's no way. He sends us in to do his friggin' dirty work and expects somethin' outta it. Circus Freak."

Annoyed, the clown in the driver's seat—Grumpy, he finally decided—grabbed the damn breakfast burrito from Dopey and threw it aside, where it hit the other guy sitting in the passenger's seat—Sneezy—right in the face. Sneezy grunted in response, pushing the now mutilated burrito off his lap, where it had consequently landed.

"Everybody out of the car." Grumpy ordered.

No one moved. Sleepy and Happy were actually half-asleep on either side Dopey, who was staring forlornly in the direction where his beloved breakfast burrito had been so viciously thrown. He'd already inhaled three of them, but he'd still been quite hungry…hadn't Grumpy over-reacted just a little? Really, what was his problem, PMS? Dopey understood why the dude had been given the title of Grumpy after all. It was like he had a huge stick permanently wedged up his ass. And he thought the Boss was moody? This guy took the cake.

"NOW!" Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass barked. Dopey scowled, pulling his mask over his face. Sneezy bolted from the car, almost shitting his pants at Grumpy's sudden outburst. Happy and Sleepy jumped awake, startled, and practically tumbled out of the vehicle in an effort to get their severely sleep-deprived bodies in motion. Casting a hard, death-wish-type glare at the infuriating clown so aptly named Dopey, Grumpy exited the minivan and slammed his door shut with enough force to shake the entire car. Grumpy remained in the back seat pouting like a five year old. In his mind, dozens of colorful words he could use to describe his superior were swirling around.

Suddenly, the back door slid open and a furious (or so he assumed, since the mask he wore covered his expression, treating him with a smirk instead) Grumpy stood on the other side. Diving across the van, Grumpy pulled the heavier teen clear out of the back seat and flung him onto the pavement. Dopey scrambled to his feet, but Grumpy grabbed him firmly, taking a fistful of his shirt in his hand.

"You got a problem, take it up with the Boss."

Dopey let out a girlish squeak, fearful.

"Just remember you can be easily replaced." That was directed at each one of them. Releasing Dopey, Grumpy joined the other three henchmen at the trunk of the van where they were unloading their weapons. Lifting a piece of tarp, Grumpy revealed a pile of what looked like actual guns. However, their outward appearance deceived them. They weren't loaded with bullets…they were loaded with something much more…fun. Grumpy took his own weapon as Dopey sauntered over, avoiding his gaze. Once they were armed, Sleepy shut the trunk, and the small group of teenagers moved toward the cafeteria door. It was unlocked like everything else in the school. The Administration was too cheap to invest in any kind of security system or teach the staff about safety measures, so getting in wasn't a problem.

Grumpy led them inside, and they crossed the sea of tables and chairs, knocking things over as they went. Sneezy noticed the lame-ass 'WELCOME BACK STUDENTS' sign that had been hung up across the back wall. Turning around, he trained his gun on the offending piece of laminated paper and fired off a shot, pelting the banner in bright green paint. Witnessing Sneezy's shot, Happy got a bit…trigger happy and fired at the arrangement of vending machines which were also situated against the back wall. They were instantly splattered with a mixture of green, purple, and red paint. All five of them made a mess with the paint-filled pellets while they advanced on their goal—the cash register. It was located in the front of the room, to the right, behind the counter of the lunch line. Beyond that counter was the kitchen, where they knew the lunch ladies would be.

They could always take the money and run, but there wasn't much excitement in that. Plus, the Boss had said he wanted a show…

Sleepy and Dopey hopped over the lunch counter, nearly tripping over each other, and approached said register. Sleepy pushed the 'Open' button like it was the damned spawn of Satan—a piece of technology he was either afraid of or had no clue how to operate. The stupid thing was locked and required a special key to achieve access to it. It figured that this would be the one item on school property that was closed up good and tight. On top of that, neither one of them knew where this supposed "secret compartment" was. Dropping his weapon, Dopey looked at Grumpy tentatively, while Sleepy just stood there staring off into space.

"Dude, we don't have a key."

Grumpy, who had been ready to burst through the other set of doors to the kitchen with Happy and Sneezy, whirled around and fired a few pellets at the dim-witted clown. Dopey was living up to every negative connotation associated with his code name and therefore grating on his already thin patience. He watched with some satisfaction as Dopey groaned from the impact of the paint pellets, stumbling backward.

"I don't care how you do it, just get into it and take the money!" he growled, receiving snickers from Happy, Sneezy, and Sleepy, who'd found a dirtier meaning to his words and choice of phrasing…somehow. "Is that so hard to understand?" Happy's continual chuckling didn't go unnoticed by the teenager in charge. He swiftly smacked Happy in the back of the head out of irritation.

"OWW! Man, what was that for?"

"Shut up," he commanded. "Get moving." He nodded his head in the direction of the steel double-doors, holding up his index finger. Quietly counting to three, Grumpy shoved the door open with his shoulder. The lunch ladies, busy at work, immediately froze upon seeing three young men in clown masks invading their territory. Doris, Muriel, Phyllis, and Bertha all turned their stares to Marge. Marge was at a loss—weren't they promised protection from these kinds of attacks?

It was a good thing she knew self-defense as a cautionary backup. It was always helpful to be prepared for anything at Gotham City High School. Being a veteran of the Regime, Marge knew this.

After a moment, Marge went toward the one whom she'd perceived as the weaker one—Sneezy—wielding a heavy, stainless steel frying pan. A shower of paint pellets flew past the Regime, exploding everywhere and blasting them with a rainbow of color.

…That is, if the rainbow was bright green, purple, red and black. Maybe in their world it was.

Phyllis and Muriel ducked for cover, not exactly up for a fight. They cowered behind the island in the center of the kitchen, occasionally peeking out to survey the damage and watch the brawl. When the coast was clear, they hauled ass to one of the storage rooms to wait it out. Meanwhile, Bertha and Doris stood by Marge, dodging paint and using various cooking utensils and kitchenware as shields and weapons. Happy, Sneezy, Grumpy had to evade many flying spoons, forks, and even a couple of knives hurled in their direction.

Marge was like a maniac. She'd donned a heavy, Army-looking helmet out of nowhere and started chasing Happy around with the frying pan while Grumpy bombarded her with paint. Happy had never seen an old woman move so freaking fast. He was afraid for his life, especially since Sneezy had been knocked out by Doris' rolling pin in the midst of the bedlam. Bertha had taken a few pellets to the back and had therefore collapsed from exhaustion and pain. Doris had nearly been knocked out by Marge's lethal frying pan—on accident, of course—and had subsequently holed up in the storage room with Muriel and Phyllis until everything was (hopefully) settled. It came down to Marge against Happy and Grumpy, with Sleepy and Dopey outside doing who-knows-what.

Finally, Grumpy smacked the pan out of Marge's hand using a series of rapid-fire shots. Happy, thinking he was safe, paused to catch his breath. He stared up at the crazy old hag, petrified. She let out an uncharacteristically low growl, swiping some of the black paint from her clothing with her finger. She smeared two lines of it on her face, one on either cheek. Happy swallowed hard. Grumpy shot her with paint again, trying in vain to take her down. How was this old woman so resilient? Annoyed with the paint pellets, Marge seized a whisk from the counter nearby and chucked it expertly at Grumpy. It whacked him at full force in the stomach like a point-blank punch, and he fell to the ground, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

Now was Marge's chance to finish off Happy. She glared down at him, cracking her knuckles threateningly. Somehow, even though this woman reminded him of his sweet, loving grandma, Happy was absolutely terrified. He was so terrified, in fact, that he nearly peed himself. This grandma meant serious business. She wasn't going down without a fight. Unfortunately for her, she wasn't able to pound him into dust like she wanted. Grumpy regained consciousness promptly and hit her in the back of the legs. And boy, did she go down like a sack of potatoes…

Happy scrambled to his feet, and Grumpy picked himself off the floor, kicking Sneezy's foot. The teenager was sprawled awkwardly on the floor and was out cold. Groaning, Grumpy exited the kitchen to check Sleepy and Dopey's progress with the cash register.

He wanted to shoot them both with a real gun, if he had one. They were hitting the cash register with their fists and guns, like that would magically make the stupid thing open. What idiots—he could strangle them both! Dopey had actually removed his shoe in order to use it to beat the crap out of the inanimate object. They couldn't have located the key in the time he, Sneezy, and Happy were fighting off the Regime? They couldn't even find something to pick the lock with? That was the whole point of them going in there; they were creating a distraction and taking out the Regime while the other two were supposed to be tracking down the key. They'd done nothing of use. Where the hell did the Boss find these morons? Grumpy couldn't take it.

"Give me that!" he shouted at Sleepy, pointing to his paintball gun. He'd left his own in the kitchen since it was empty and useless. He grabbed Sleepy's gun and using the butt of it, knocked both of them out. There wasn't any reason to keep them conscious when they weren't doing a blessed thing to help the situation. They slumped to the floor, one after the other.

Suddenly, there was a loud clank from the depths of the kitchen.

Happy screamed. Why did they all scream like little girls? What was the deal with that?

Clank.

"No! Please, let me go!"

Clank. "You insufferable little monster!"

"Get away from me with that thing, lady! You're insane!"

Clank.

Silence. There was a loud and miserable sigh.

"I'm getting to old for this shit."

That couldn't be good…

Grumpy dove over the counter, rolling across the tiled cafeteria floor. He scooted forward on his haunches, trying to escape. Screw the money and the Boss' job—he was getting the hell out of here. He still had Sleepy's paintball gun as Marge burst through the kitchen doors, holding her deadly frying pan like a baseball bat. She was sort of crouched down, ready to strike like some old lady version of a cobra. She walked around the counter, eyes darting every which way. Grumpy remained on the ground, lying flat on his stomach now, gun facing outward. He'd barely fired a few shots when something happened so unexpectedly that it stopped both of them in their tracks…

The Dean of Students, Jim Gordon, approached the front doors of Gotham City High School, wearing a nice suit with his briefcase in hand. He paused to take a breath, and consequently coughed from inhaling the pollution corrupting the air. Why did it seem like the dirtiest, darkest cloud of smog constantly hung over the school? Was that meant to be like some sort of warning? He didn't especially care to know.

It was a new semester at his place of employment, which was stressful, yet thrilling in an odd way. He had the unfortunate job of disciplining the students—the source, most likely, of his steadily graying hair. Each year everything appeared to get worse, like Gotham City High was being sucked further and further down the drain. Gordon tried his hardest to keep everything under control, but sometimes it became a bit overwhelming.

He told himself this year would be different, though. Things would get better. It was the 70th anniversary of the school's founding, after all. It wouldn't be nearly as bad as usual. Nothing could compare to losing the science wing and spending thousands of dollars over the summer to have it rebuilt. Right?

He firmly believed—

The building shook right before Gordon's eyes, disrupting his thoughts. Not as harsh as if an earthquake had struck, but it was perceptible. His hand hadn't even touched the door and now he had this very sudden bad feeling crashing down on him like a ton of bricks—

"Damn it all."

Grumpy had zero time to get out of the way. If he'd made an attempt, it wouldn't have been fast enough. Out of nowhere (or so it seemed), a massive yellow school bus tore right through the wall of the cafeteria, shattering the windows and causing the brick and other pieces of structure around it to crumble. The sound was practically deafening—all that could be heard was the screeching of the wheels on the tile and the incessant scraping and collapsing of the building it had hit. As it came to a halt in the middle of the room, the bus crushed and toppled tables, chairs, and anything else that happened to be in its path.

A rouge table flew at Grumpy, and that's when he knew he was basically a goner. Or at least, he knew he was going to be injured very, very badly. That was not a good feeling in the least. The table flung him back a number of feet before completely falling on top of him. Shocked at the sight, Marge let the frying pan clatter to the floor. She didn't want to find out who had driven that bus into the school, but she couldn't get her brain to tell her body to run. She wanted to get somewhere safe—maybe the storage room with the rest of The Lunch Lady Regime—because she just knew she was too tired and sore to fight off another one of these brats. She was going to have a bone to pick with the people she did business with later; they weren't holding up their end of the deal to her satisfaction. Seeing that no one was getting out of the bus yet, Marge figured she had some time to get her ass in gear.

But she just couldn't move.

Gordon took a couple of guarded steps back, as if the entire building was going to disintegrate into ruin if he so much as placed his fingertips on the door handle. It very well could have for all he knew. He sighed quite audibly, closing his eyes out of frustration. He hadn't set foot in the school, and he was already overcome with extreme aggravation. And why did he still choose to work here…?

He had yet to find an answer to that question.

"Walk away…" he told himself quietly, calmly as he could possibly manage. "Just walk away."

He did, too. He ambled back down the steps and stood several feet from the building, making an effort to compose himself. He needed some mental preparation before he went to investigate how much of the school had been destroyed this time.

He put his free hand against his forehead, his back to the edifice.

"I don't want to know," he said, talking to himself again. "I don't. One day. All I ask for is one normal day." He almost laughed aloud. Normal? Who was he kidding? Gotham City High's—and the whole of Gotham City, for that matter—normal wasn't anywhere near the same level of normal that the rest of the world operated on. "Is that too much?"

Apparently so.

Smoke filled the cafeteria and bricks continued to tumble from the aftermath. Marge was frozen in place, gaping at the scene before her. She slid slowly down to the floor with her back against the lunch counter, trembling out of fear. Wide-eyed, Marge watched someone stumble from the bus, shrouded in the thin layer of smoke. The first thing she noticed about this mystery person was the vibrant purple Converse sneakers. Her gaze traveling upward and she saw a tall, wiry teenager wearing clothes that seemed way too expensive for a mere high school student.

The ensemble was all purple and green. Purple pin-striped suit pants, a green and lilac vest and periwinkle-ish shirt, with a tie, all underneath a large purple coat which appeared to be almost a size or two bigger than he needed. He was impeccably dressed for someone who'd just crashed a bus into the high school cafeteria. His slightly curly dark blond hair held a tinge of lime green, which in her opinion looked like a dye job gone awfully wrong. Was that what these kids were doing to their hair these days? She wondered.

However, the most peculiar and frightening feature of this young man was his face. It was plastered first in white paint, along with black outlining and covering his eyes, as well as bright, blood red smeared across his lips haphazardly. The red curved upward in an unsettling manner to emphasize the deep scars that marred his young countenance. Marge couldn't believe the state of this teenager. His mother actually let him go out of the house like that?

The teenager in question adjusted his coat by tugging on the lapels, and sauntered around the bus with an uneven swagger. He was humming something, not paying any attention to her, which she was somewhat thankful for. He inspected the damage with a pleased glint in his eye, giggling and continuing to hum to himself. Marge knew the song; she was too preoccupied with her fear to place it. The teen caught something out of the corner of his line of vision, and walked to where Grumpy had been crushed by the table. He giggled madly again—the sound made Marge let out an involuntary squeak. His head snapped in the direction of where he'd heard the yelp, laying eyes on the lone lunch lady. He started skipping over to her—skipping; what was wrong with this boy?—and instead of humming this time, he was singing in a low voice.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…"

Really now. Was he serious? Marge couldn't begin to comprehend what was going on. The teen's voice got nasally as he sung, creeping her the hell out.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town," he smiled at her, the scars making it look twice as large and intimidating. "Why helloooo, there." He crouched down to her level.

"Why are you doing this?" Marge asked him nervously. "Kids your age don't come to school to tear it to pieces! You should be ashamed of yourself, young man! When I was in school—"

The teenager scoffed. What was that, like billions of years ago when dinosaurs roamed the Earth?

"—we used to believe in getting good grades…"

Another scoff.

"…and good behavior…"

He grunted.

"…and free snack days! You—"

She didn't get a chance to finish her sentence. The mysterious teenager grabbed Marge by her god-awful hairnet (the Army helmet had fallen off sometime during the kitchen battle) and got obnoxiously close to her face.

"I believe…what doesn't kill you, simply makes you…stranger." Thoughtful, he paused for a moment. "Like, for example, your crappy excuse for cooking-uh."

That was low. Marge didn't particularly care for that comment. She tried to open her mouth to speak but he covered her mouth with his hand. It was only then that she realized he was wearing purple leather gloves. This boy was clearly not right in the head… He produced a card seemingly out of thin air, and held it up in front of Marge's face for her to see.

It was a Joker. How…fitting, Marge decided bitterly.

"Hold onto this for me, would ya?" He shoved the playing card in her mouth and tapped her cheek in a mockingly-affectionate gesture. He got to his full height and jumped agilely over the counter. He took the entire cash register with him and skipped off toward the exit of the cafeteria to go who-knows-where in the enormous school. Marge spat the disgusting card out, not wanting to know where he'd gotten it from and where it had been previously.

Glancing around at the disaster area that had once been the cafeteria, Marge figured it was probably a good time to start thinking about retirement.