Various Nuances of Ovaltine World
The children came scampering into the kitchen, hooting with jocularity. Mother -- white, upper-middle class, perfect -- turned to greet them with a smile. Not just a smile, she's double fisting two glacially fogged glasses of murmuring malted chocolate drink.
"More Ovaltine, please!!!" was the muscular cry from the little league team.
"Oh, you kids," Mom says, shaking her head, orthodontically boasting.
Mom was not unprepared -- no, never will she ever be; she swings her soft, sexual, mauve-sweatered body to the side, revealing fourteen more glasses of delicious Ovaltine.
"Drink up, my cherubs, drink," Mom says, joyously cackling to her absent God.
Bobby slouches in his desk, distracting himself by flicking his pencil against an empty notebook.
"It's not that hard, Bobby" Mr. Weintraub says, peering down his spectacles.
"I'm just thinking," Bobby says, frustrated.
Mr. Weintraub perilously swings a pointer against the math problem on the board, "If I have one quarter gallon of Ovaltine and add a half gallon of Ovaltine, how much Ovaltine do I have?"
Bobby grabs a tuft of his hair, holding back tears. He hates math, he was never good at it. He can feel the heat coming from his classmates, crawling up the back of his neck deep into the nerve endings of his spinal column. He chokes a bit, stifling the welling sadness.
"Three quarters of a gallon of Ovaltine, Mr. Weintraub!" shouts Alice McDermott from the middle of the room.
"That's right, Alice. Three quarters of a gallon of Ovaltine," Mr. Weintraub says, sighing towards Bobby.
Bobby, red in the eyes, glares back at Alice, all perfect and angelic. He takes a smooth swig of chilled Ovaltine to calm his nerves. He won't let her forget this; soon the whole school will know who he is.
"Bring in the defendant!" cried the Judge, batting his desk with the gavel.
A man in an orange jumpsuit, restrained at his ankles and wrists is lead to a modest chair in front of a meticulously polished mahogany desk. He glances up at the judge, ashamed, and quickly looks back at his feet.
"Quentin J. Peterson, how do you plead to unlawful possession of purple stuff?"
Quentin doesn't answer, he keeps staring at the floor.
"Mr. Peterson?" the Judge booms in his direction.
Quentin plays with his thumbs. He wonders to himself, what kind of world is this? How can he live in a world in which lactose-intolerance is accepted and a man is judged upon what beverages he consumes.
"C'mon, Quent. We don't have all day, c'mon," his lawyer, William chimes in. William looks busy, and his mind is not in the room. He adjusts his tie abruptly and begins to pour a court-provided pitcher of Ovaltine into his glass.
Quentin suddenly lashes forth. The pitcher of sweet, rich, and malty Ovaltine spills throughout the courtroom. William falls back with surprise.
The baliff draws his weapon, "Stop right there!"
From his jumpsuit pocket, Quentin pulls a juicebox containing some sort of non-Ovaltine drink.
"Mr. Peterson, stop this instant!" the Judge screams.
It's already too late, Quentin has begun to spray concentrated purple fluid into his mouth and all over his face, rapturously squeezing the laminated cardboard box. A whizzing crack is heard in the cavernous courtroom as the baliff fires a slug directly into Quentin's chest. He reels back, blood and purple stuff spray off his contorting body, twinkling in the fluorescent lights. Another shot, this one striking him in the shoulder, spinning him on his feet like a top.
Quentin comes to a fall in a puddle of Ovaltine, slowly mixing with purple drink from his juicebox. He gasps for air, but can only take in suffocating gulps of frothy, ambrosial Ovaltine. His vision blurs as Ovaltine soaks into his left eye, pressed against the cool courtroom floor. This is what he gets. This is what we all get... in Ovaltine World.