Junior high lunchtime, and Petey and Tommy were eating sandwiches. The wolf and fox were, in fact, both enjoying them - expecting milkshakes to follow, of course.

     Krystal sat down heavily at the table, sighed, pulled out her repast from a paper bag. The girlfur certainly didn't look happy at all.

     Petey glanced her way, went back to his snack. Tommy peered over, a curious inquisition.

     "Horseradish," Krystal muttered, sourly. "I hate it when my mom packs my lunch." The expression on her face was of long-suffering, world-without-end, despair.

     Tommy nodded in sympathy; said furgirl rolled her head.

     The acrid scent of ennui, a tang of hysteria wafted across to canid nostrils. The boyfurs tried to ignore it; the gothfur immersed in its bitter misery. At length she drifted away, propelled over an invisible sea of angst abreast another gusty sigh.

     "I don't think it's the mustard," Petey enjoined.

     "Nmm?" Tommy had returned to his munch.

     "Nopers. It's the dark bread." A silly smirk crossed his wolfly face, disappeared on the instant.

     "I've never seen a sandwich in so many pieces," the fox admitted, honestly. "What's up with that?"

     "Emo Bread, Tommy. It cuts itself!"