Battle of the Cafeteria - an awesome short story I wrote
Posted: Thu Dec 03, 2009 8:08 am
Lemme know what you think
Battle of the Cafeteria
Dingalingaling! Dingalingaling! The cook tapped his triangle again. Dingalingaling! “Come and geeeeet eet!” He spoke with a strong accent.
Then the hoard came stampeding in, trampling any and everyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. The cook suddenly exchanged his instrument for a crimson red square of cloth.
“Chaaaaarge!” could be heard above the din, uttered by the frontmost man, obviously their leader. Or perhaps chieftain, it was difficult to draw a distinction.
The cook fluttered the red icon and a raging battlecry tore from his throat.
The war was now.
The oncoming hoard split into three parties: a left and a right flank, and the center, headed by the leader. The cook turned and rushed for his kitchen and took up the ladle and the fork – glorious utensils for the imminent chaos. Though many might argue the chaos was already come.
Slops of casserole, heaps of mush, and helpings of mold flew rapidly toward the advancing army, propelled by the frantic cook’s fork and ladle. Their leader roared. “We will not be satisfied!”
Sweat inched down the obese cook’s brow, and splashed down on the cold, hard floor.
They arrived then. The storm. The ravaging, ferocious, unmerciful storm of hungered beasts. When they finally let up, not a crumb, not a bone, not a single morsel was left to be found.
Not even the cook.
Battle of the Cafeteria
Dingalingaling! Dingalingaling! The cook tapped his triangle again. Dingalingaling! “Come and geeeeet eet!” He spoke with a strong accent.
Then the hoard came stampeding in, trampling any and everyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. The cook suddenly exchanged his instrument for a crimson red square of cloth.
“Chaaaaarge!” could be heard above the din, uttered by the frontmost man, obviously their leader. Or perhaps chieftain, it was difficult to draw a distinction.
The cook fluttered the red icon and a raging battlecry tore from his throat.
The war was now.
The oncoming hoard split into three parties: a left and a right flank, and the center, headed by the leader. The cook turned and rushed for his kitchen and took up the ladle and the fork – glorious utensils for the imminent chaos. Though many might argue the chaos was already come.
Slops of casserole, heaps of mush, and helpings of mold flew rapidly toward the advancing army, propelled by the frantic cook’s fork and ladle. Their leader roared. “We will not be satisfied!”
Sweat inched down the obese cook’s brow, and splashed down on the cold, hard floor.
They arrived then. The storm. The ravaging, ferocious, unmerciful storm of hungered beasts. When they finally let up, not a crumb, not a bone, not a single morsel was left to be found.
Not even the cook.