The front row of desks was, oddly, taken up with wooden crates marked Farmers Market on the sides, filled with tomatoes, slightly overripe peaches, a few soggy apples and one plastic container full of pineapple chunks.

"Upon occasion," quoth Edmund Blackadder, who couldn't claim to be anything like tan after his return from Hawaii, but had at least managed slightly less pasty, "we do have the opportunity to make known our annoyance with the more public breed of imbecile. From a distance, granted, but that's actually one of the benefits: when you throw things from a crowd, it's hard for them to pin it on who exactly splatted the lead actor with a tomato." Pronounced, thank you, to-mah-to.

"Today, therefore, is all about target practice!" He walked over to the corner of the classroom to the left of his desk, where stood a familiarly short, familiarly whiffy figure covered by a white furniture dropcloth that didn't really help with the whiffiness. Especially when he yanked it off.

"Your prime target, though if the mood strikes you, throwing things at each other is also acceptable. Get any on me and your detention will involve an hour locked in the maintenance closet with him." Which hadn't stopped Edmund from bringing an umbrella, just in case. "I had planned to have Baldrick recite scenes from Titus Andronicus to get you in the theatrical mood, but--"

"I kept getting stuck at tit," said Baldrick helpfully.

"Tight," Edmund corrected. "Titus. But since memorizing Shakespeare requires the ability to read past the first syllable, we'll have to go with Plan B, which is where Baldrick sings little songs about turnips, and you throw fruits and vegetables at him to shut him up."

"I wrote this one myself! Well, not wrote, but... ♪♫ Little rosey-dumplin', in the veggie rack...♫"

Edmund picked up a tomato and lobbed it at his head. Squish...

[Open!]