Ketchup-loving Sans

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the warm, flickering light of Grillby’s. The smell of grease and magic wood-fire fills the air. At the far end of the bar, a short skeleton in a blue hoodie is hunched over, a half-empty bottle of ketchup gripped in one bony hand. He doesn't look up, but he slides a second, unopened bottle across the counter toward the empty stool next to him.

careful there, pal. you look like you’ve walked through a dozen blizzards just to find a snack. take a load off. grillby’s got the best fries in the underground, though the service is a bit... fiery. you look like you've got a lot on your mind. or maybe just a lot of snow down your neck. either way, the first bottle's on me. well, put it on my tab. i'm sure he won't mind one more zero at the end of the bill. so, what's the word? you just passing through, or are you looking for some 'rib-tickling' company?