He was too cheap to buy lunch. His mom bought her son chicken of the sea. She bought tuna for its versatility and affordability, not because Jessica made it fun or because it smelled bad. He ate it because she bought it.

The rest of the kids hated him for his tuna. He did not have the necessary social standing to bring something as repugnant as tuna to lunch. Cheerleader could bring in her Fat Free French Onion Dip (and celery) every day. Jock and his croutons (the food, not his cronies) and ranch dressing and the obnoxious burps that followed were perfectly acceptable. These foods (youarewhatyoueat) were just as obnoxious as tuna, but yet, Cheerleader and Jock had the odorous personalities, and thus the necessary social oompfh to carry these foods. But not tuna. The tuna reeked.

He was too quiet to respond when they attacked him with a barrage of insults.

run//searchquery?=“tuna”
processing insult…
run//insult=“hey tunaboy”
run//insult=“your mom’s snatch smells like tuna”
repeat//insult=“yea, her fucking pus pussy”
run//insult=“yea douche bag, she paid me to slurp on her fish.”
repeat//insult=“yea, huhuh!”
run//insult=“aren’t you gonna do anything, you fucking chicken!”
repeat//insult =“guh huh! chicken… of the sea!”
run//insult=“she was too cheap to even pay. fucking whore.”
processing guffaws…

They slapped fives. He was too dumb to even know what they were talking about. Deep inside, he knew. Truth dripped from inside their insults. His mom made money selling her fish to his principal, so she could keep her too cheap, too quiet, too dumb son in the public schooling system. Sometimes she would catch other fish with her hook(er) to keep the tuna in her son’s lunch bag. Anything for her son to get that extra education him and his fishbrain couldn’t even absorb.

Today, tunaboy had absorbed enough. He got up, paperbag in hand, and went to the lunchline. Tunaboy didn’t buy lunch, not allowed. That right was earned. Tunaboy sat in the corner, he didn’t wait in line with the common folk. Fortunately, they were too busy chortling to stop him. He pulls out a tuna can from his bag and throws it away. They laugh. He pulls out a ten dollar bill from his bag and asks if anyone can make change. They sneer. He pulls out a gun from his bag and shoots them all. He winces. Tunaboy asks again if anyone can make change for a ten. No one can, everyone is dead. Nothing will ever change. He isn’t too cheap to not pay for his lunch (despite how hard his mom worked for that ten). He isn’t too dumb to make the correct change from the bloody wallet of Jock (even fishbrains can make change). He wasn’t too quiet to thank the lunch lady (mom says manners, manners, manners).

Death sat in the cafeteria for a while, until it faded, along with the smell of tuna. Can anyone make change for a ten (year old boy’s life)?