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His eye holes plaintively reached out to the beast’s callous, depraved salad. It stared back with furious contempt for his indiscretion.
“What is the answer, Grimold,” the freshly chopped salad commanded.
“I haven’t any gloobs, nor do I own niggles or scallydonkers. You’re out of luck, Kind sir. You’re tossed!” Grimold ran his fingers through the length of his rockstar-like wig in a gesture that seemed to indicate gross amounts of despair. The salad quickly stood from its bowl and levitated above the table.
“Don’t you stare through me in that tone of gesture!” the salad snapped back.
“But—“
“You’ll quickly find yourself in a world of crackers, cottonmouth, and starvation if you get snappy with me again,” the salad interrupted. “Now, give me an answer.”
“Yes… I did.” Grimold began to weep.
“Then you must die.”

Seventy-nine stories of building toppled over, leaving a furrowed, chaotic sky in place of the ceiling that once dominated their upper peripheral vision. It began raining croutons at an unrealistic rate. The croutons were so thick in the air that Grimold began to choke. He asphyxiated minutes later.

The beast smiled and exclaimed, “VALUE!” as he poured Grimold’s blood into his salad for lack of ranch dressing. Grimold had stolen it.