Morning routine

Quarter to six and the cafeteria is half full of shit. Twenty percent human and thirty percent breakfast on either the floor or the walls. Neither the chef nor Roger himself have authority to stop the typical children - kids with the IQ of about two hundred and ninety-six at least - from their unstoppable drive to just technically mess around without getting arrested for adult abuse and damage of property at this point of the day.

In a usual table near the glass window, I hang around there with my dog. Well, everyone calls him that - I'm with my best bud Matt, a.k.a potential-smoker-since-he-was-four-and-gamer-twenty-four-seven. Ninety percent of this horror hour we just bum around with pancakes and bacon and have I mentioned chocolate yet?

Fucks given for this amusing crap is about forty, no, forty point five. I don't care whose oatmeal was thrown to who's what or if Whammy's exclusive Arabian coffee was drank by Jones the nerd or ... Something.

Just sitting without any worries in my black pajamas feels good. Actually, not entirely - There was this one day when Linda was too early to be drunk and threw scrambled eggs at me. The little fact that my chocolate was no longer good to be tolerated and eaten was enough to make the whole genius clan forget my existence every morning, and yes, do their best to simply exclude from the targets.

Twenty minutes after and oatmeals are out. Salad too, since all of them are mixed with ketchup and soy sauce instead of mayo and Caesar. I heard Matt sigh and inch his butt a little from the seat, feeling the heavy atmosphere slowly leave the room.

Two minutes before seven.

Two minutes before seven and oatmeal and salad cannot be even looked at by average mankind.

What?

"Holy shit, Mary took Linda's first ki-"

"SHUT THE HELL UP DAMN FRUSTRATED TWITS!"

Instant silence filled the room. Everyone knew its that time, and the infamous red head just sighed. 'It's Mello and his over-protective-idiot side again. Every fucking two minutes before seven.' Matt is just sick of this dramatic crap.

After the whole room had taken their seats quietly and pretend that they're actually licking off all the food thrown at their faces, I made my way to the door where my day would officially start with.

"Mello?" A soft, monotone voice questioned.

"Morning shitface."

". . . . . . Where'd all the oatmeal go?"

"Jones painted himself with it."

"How about the salad?"

"Turned out to be another food for the pigs." After the statement, Near formed a troubled voice, and God every feature was so gentle even when the only time he can possibly eat to live the day is gone.

"Come on, I'll cook pancakes."

"But I don't -

"Don't waste it, we're going to the kitchen.

Jones tried to convince himself that Mello didn't send him a glare that time ( because it will only mean violence later ) and Matt nodded his head when the second genius mouthed him that he will be gone long because he's about to poison Near.

Bitch please.

Matt suddenly put out a big fat piggy bank with all his savings and waved it enough for everyone to see.

"I'm betting all my greens that Mello meant he loves that sheep."

No one opposed lower.