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“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.