Xavier reaches for a barf bag

As I gazed down at the plate of rat vomit in front of me, I pondered my options. The chef, Starkey Al-Hvmmmmm, didn’t say that was what he just served me. He called it “baked pickrat in plankton sauce,” but obviously he was lying.

I picked up my spoon and just kind of twirled it around on the table. My powers simply don’t extend to a cast-iron stomach. Taking a half-spoon full, I brought some of the gunk up to my nose. I took the most tentative sniff. Suddenly my nostrils were filled with searing pain. I dropped the spoon.

Perhaps I should just quit, I thought. After all, I am the head of a prestigious school back on Earth. I founded the X-Men for heaven's sake! I don’t need this. Have you seen the opening weekend box office results for the Last Stand? Royalties alone will keep me a very happy man.

I glanced around at the other contestants. Maggie’s face seemed to be an odd shade of blue. Amidala was throwing some kind of tantrum at Jon. Only Vegeta seemed to be enjoying himself. He was almost through his first dish and already reaching for a second plate. Sayians. I bet he’s using some kind of weird power.

Hmm, I wonder if I could use my mental powers to take over my own mind – make me think I’m actually eating chocolate cake or something. Ah, who am I kidding? That’s not going to work.
With a sigh I reached for my spoon again. I dipped it into the goo and forced my trembling hand to bring it to my lips. Just as I was about to attempt ingesting the putrid stuff, a large hand slapped me hard in the back. The spoon went flying.

“Hey!” I heard a vaguely familiar voice call out. “I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you, baldy.”

I turned around in my chair and saw Bone Grinder. “If you don’t mind, I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” I told him.

“Yeah, that’s great. But you see, you and I have some settlin’ up to do.”

“Can’t this wait.”

“Nope. Let me take you back in time a few days. You and I were havin’ a nice chat back at the retirement home. Then I helped you turn on your hoverbike, ‘cause you’re too much of a dunder-head to figure it out for yourself. Sound familiar so far?”

I nodded.

“Now, a normal guy, a friendly guy, a human being . . he would have said ‘thank you.’ But what did you do? You messed with my mind somehow. Then that jerk the Red Bottomed Baboon painted an ‘L’ on my forehead. In permanent ink! And he shaved off my eyebrows!”

“I am truly, humbly and deeply sorry to hear that but I’m afraid I simply must get back to eating this horrible, vile food.”

I pointed at the bowl in front of me and the old gladiator looked down. He lowed his face over it and inhaled sharply. “Hmm,” he said, “baked pickrat in plankton sauce. My favorite! Do you mind?”

I quickly glanced around. Most of the other’s seemed transfixed by their dire fates. “Not at all. Please . . help yourself.”

And with that Bone Grinder picked up the bowl with his hand and, tossing his head back, swallowed the entire contents in one gulp. “Yum! I sure do miss this stuff. Can I get seconds?”

“How about some chocolate asparagus in horseradish dressing?” I asked with a smile that would make Loki proud. “And I have butterscotch-filled cicada shells for desert.”

“You know what kid? I think I may just let by-gones be by-gones.”