You're the kind of person who reads the ending first, aren't you?  Don't
try to deny it, we can tell.  Touch sensors embedded in your keyboard
analyzed your personality at login and sent you one of two messages
accordingly.  This is the ending-first version.

"Mango Mexican Madness," said Billy the Kid.  A shadow darkened his face
for an instant as one of the wheeling vultures passed in front of the sun. 
"Flour and corn tortillas living together in harmony.  Ground beef and
beans on one and the same table.  The downtrodden condiments, lettuce,
tomato, cheese -- yes, even salsa, even chips -- no longer relegated to
the periphery.  I have a dream."

A murmur arose from the rice gathered by the entrance to the corral. 
Finally one grain, larger than the rest, muscled forward.  "You talk big,"
it scoffed, "but it'll never work.  What about the drinks, huh?  You
theorists always paint pretty pictures but you never deliver.  Tell us
about the drinks!"  A few ragged shouts of encouragement rose behind him. 
The vultures circled closer.

Billy raised his arms for silence.  The rice fell back a step.  "True,
sodas there will be," he said.  "All manner of sodas -- cola, lemon-lime,
diet.  But for the truly great of heart -- Mango Lassi!"

"What's lassi?" asked one grain of rice, swayed but still uncertain.

"I don't know," said Billy, "it's not in the Merriam-Webster online
dictionary.  You can drink it.  It probably has something to do with
mangoes."  The monkeys behind him cheered.

The rice began to press forward.  The primates curled their teeth back
from their lips.  The air grew thick with tension.

Then a shadow passed across the sun.  The crowd glanced upward, then
stared, mouths open, hostility forgotten.  It wasn't the vultures blocking
the light;  they had fled the scene, taken cover.  Something was falling
from the sky.

Cookies.  Hundreds upon hundreds of cookies.  Downwards they fluttered,
littering the scene, landing on both sides alike.  Snickerdoodles, double
chocolate, kitchen sinks, they fell, bringing joy.  The gathered masses
saw, tasted, then, tears streaming down their faces, rushed to embrace
their former antagonists.

The time of crisis was over.  High noon had passed.  It was 12:20.  In the
eighth floor playroom.  And it was good.


Jonathan
Venkat
Matthias
Justin