Harold sat in a cushioned bench, his feet making squeaky sounds as he tapped them against the tile. Harold loved waffles, but for him, the amber ambrosia drizzled on top was the best, overflowing out of the little squares, dripping down the golden-brown sides... A squeaky voice ripped him from his thoughts. Harold snapped his head up and saw a lanky teenage waiter standing in front of him.
"I have your order, sir." He announced, sliding a platter over to him.
As Harold stared at the checkered slab of Belgium goodness before him, he couldn't help but notice a critical ingredient was missing. His eyes darkened.
"Where's my syrup?" He asked suspiciously.
The waiter mumbled something and started to fidget nervously.
"WHERES-MY-SYRUP?" Harold repeated, enunciating every syllable.
"Umm..." The waiter gulped. "We ran out."
Harolds stomach dropped, and he started to uncontrollably moan.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."
The waiter shrugged and scurried off.
