By Brian Watko
On August 30th at 6:15 PM, junior Julian Smigel entered the Kline Dining Commons for the first time since early March. The once-familiar space had been rendered strange and uncanny by the myriad changes it had undergone in his absence. Stepping inside the main cafeteria, Julian was surprised to see two paths diverge like the forking lanes of a slaughterhouse. One stanchion-lined walk led to the grill area, the other towards the central serving station. Without a Kline employee to guide him, Julian elected to take the latter—a choice that made all the difference.
Behind the counter stood a solitary worker: a wizened old man, his face lined with wrinkles, wearing black Parkhurst-sanctioned robes. His sunken blue eyes sparkled as Julian approached. “You have chosen wisely, traveler,” said the man in a voice like sandpaper. “There are two paths in this canteen (one good, one bad), and not a soul who enters here can tell the difference. While your fellow scholars must sate themselves with less-than-satisfactory fare, rejoice! for you have chosen the path of the good food offerings!”
With the flourish, the old man drew the lids from the catering trays, revealing all the makings of a veritable feast: fresh-baked breads; rich, steaming soups; roasted vegetables; meats; cheeses; treats and dainties of all kinds. “Behold!” roared the Kline worker. “All of this is yours for the taking—fortune favors the bold. Will you be having coq au vin or fillet mignon? Or suckling pig, with an apple still in its mouth? Partake of goose, pheasant, peacock and swan!” Load your tray high, O hungry one; take as much as you can!” With that, a band of minstrels emerged from under the counter and struck up a jaunty madrigal. The smell of woodsmoke hung heavy in the air.
“Or perhaps libation is what you seek,” said the old man, stroking his white beard with a vinyl-glovèd hand. “Once your plate is runneth over with victuals, make your way to the drinks section and ask for the secret menu––the password is bibendum. Then, fill your horn with wine! With honey mead! With sweet champagne! Whatever you desire, it is yours!”
Casting a derisive look over at the cafeteria’s grill, the old man giggled with grim delight. “Ah, poor fools who chose the wrong path. They will eat watery gruel like orphans in the workhouse. But you,” he said, poking Julian with a bony finger. “You will not share their fate. You will dine like a king—like a god!”
Julian was later spotted in Old Kline with two slices of cheese pizza and a cup of iced coffee.
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