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Description
They called themselves the Food Fighting Fellas, an infamous bunch of ten who were notorious for starting food fights in restaurants and diners all over town recently. Their identities still remained a mystery for they always fled the scene as soon as police sirens were heard blaring in the distance.

He had heard of them on the news and wanted to see them in action. They did, after all, seem like an entertaining lot. With a swish of his cape, he disappeared and then reappeared exactly where he wished to be – wherever they were, which happened to be Spunky's Food Joint right then. He snapped his fingers and watched as the world froze in its tracks, and Time stood as still as the surface of a placid lake.

In suspended animation, he saw before him a food fight that was in progress. The media did get something right after all. There were indeed ten of them, all wearing painted children's masks so as to evade positive identification. They had split themselves into two groups of five and in between them were a few upturned tables and a handful of terrified customers, the alarm and panic etched and frozen in place on their pale faces. Two of the innocent customers were on all fours in what looked like an attempt to avoid being caught up in a messy food war as two groups of masked people hurled food at each other. Some had eyes that were wide with shock as they sat glued to their seats, while others had their mouths slightly ajar while they ducked as low as they could. One, however, took shelter beside an upturned table as she hastily tried to finish what was left of a chocolate cake.

He chuckled to himself when he spotted two waitresses using serving trays as shields as they crouched low on the floor. The cook stood flummoxed as he peeped cautiously through the kitchen door, gripping a rolling pin tightly in one hand. There appeared to be a cloud of baking powder behind him. Now shifting his attention to the Food Fighting Fellas, he noticed that the name was misleading. He could see a few members of the female race among them, and they wore hastily-emptied bowls on their heads like helmets, with a few stray strands of spaghetti intertwined with their hair. All of them, without exception, held some edible form of food or the other in their hands and were either in the process of aiming or throwing. One young man had thrown a spaghetti lasso in the direction of a ketchup bottle, another clutched one pasta bomb between his teeth as he juggled three others with both hands, and yet another had improvised a burger catapult using two forks fixed on a table and some sort of thick rubber band stretched between them.

The entire place was a colossal mess. There was an assortment of stains on the walls – green, red, brown, yellow, orange and more – and there were blobs of custard, mashed potatoes, slices of pizzas and what not covering the floor. Tablecloths seemed to have been used as a second line of defence, following plates. A fine misty spray of clear soup, salt and pepper dust scattered in the air, and a few misfits – like the toad that looked out from under a teacup and the crab that had jumped out of a dish it was supposed to adorn – added flavour to the scene.

Amusing indeed, he thought, as he tore off a piece from a slice of bread that was suspended in midair. He snapped his fingers once more, and pushed his way past the swinging doors as everything came back to life. The food fight had only just begun!