36. SFI Breakfast

Ah-moe and Ah-mo limped to the cookhouse clutching their sore behinds, with Alex strolling casually behind.

The cookhouse, like the prison, was a run-down piece of shelter. The moist tiled floor was filled with rows of tables and chairs, all stained and yellowed over the years. Old dirty fans spun lazily as the canteen bustled with activity -- a row of inmates holding big metal trays queueing for food; groups eating breakfast and chatting animatedly with one another; a row of food servers behind a counter, busy serving out scoops of food to the queue of inmates.

"Pleeak!"

A ladle-ful of blob was scooped onto Ah-mo's metal tray.

"Jed. 什么东西来的? 很难看leh!" Ah-mo protested.

"对er! 看起来真的很难看er! 你们会不会煮的?" Ah-moe demanded.

"We are called 'The S.F.I.' -- Sickening, Foul and Inedible, some people say... But seriously, I think they are still being kind... We would never, ever eat the food we cook..." the chef replied, seeing their questioning look on their faces.

Before Ah-mo or Ah-moe could ask him to speak in proper language, the whip came crashing down on the butts of Ah-mo and Ah-moe.

"Don't talk! Hurry up! Others are waiting!" Alex ordered.

...