Meating

Standard

“Pleased to meet you, do come in! You must be my eleven thirty, about young Thomas? Great potential in the boy, nice brains behind his attitude. Very, very nice brains…”
It stood up, hobbling on mismatched legs. Limping, it approached the concerned couple, one arm outstretched, looking for a handshake. The other arm lay lifeless on the desk.
“Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Mr – and I’m…”, it mumbled something that sounded very much like, but not quite, teacher. “Yes, I was part of a new positive discrimination scheme to allow even more under-represented communities to contribute and take part in academia”, it said, smiling. Though it was getting weary.
The job could take its toll, being so lively and warm-hearted all the time. It was constantly afraid about falling apart under too much pressure. And it could sense what was in their minds. It could smell it.
“I do, yes”, it replied, “I understand that there are rules against beating, but no one mentioned tastin– testing what the pupils are made of. In fact, I make them run… classes on their own, once in a while. See how they’ll work in a challenging environment, prove their leadership skills, savour their… their…” It could smell them. Terribly distracting. It was getting hungry.
It picked up the arm from the desk, and glanced at the wrist watch – the next appointment wasn’t until noon. It looked back at the couple, and smiled.
Lunch time.

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