“You’ve got your standard lunch-table factions in here,” says Hiram, “your lacrosse jocks, band geeks, cheerleaders and–”
“Let me guess,” says Alaric, “goths?”
“Visigoths, actually,” says Hiram.
“Are they still into self-mutilation and the Cure?”
“No. Just sacking.”
The Visigoths sack the pizza line; their leader whoops and whirls a heat lamp around his head. Some of them have ponies.
“I think the administration would be annoyed,” says Hiram, “if they didn’t produce such advanced metalworks.”
“I want a pony!”
“You should join.”
Alaric does, and learns that they sack so much because they never get any lunch money.