Nightworld Delights
Richard Kniazuk
“Excuse me, oh excuse me, hot dog peddler! I’m new to this part of the region. Some would call me a ‘tourist,’ although I consider myself a ‘citizen of the world,’ and how absolutely fitting and fortuitous it must be to find myself placed in this world-class city!”
The old hot dog vendor’s worn golden eyes stared at the finely dressed man.
“That’s great, pal, but uh, is there something I can help you with? Directions or something?” The vendor waved around his wet bone tongs flippantly.
“Well,” the finely dressed man continued, wiping his petticoat, “as it just so happens, I’ve been trekking under the perpetual night of this breathtaking city, partaking in its veritably rich food staples, but there yet remains one item on my gastro-list to experience, and I’ve been informed that your particular cart dispenses in the most exquisite and authentic grub!”
“Yeah, we got grub.”
“Brilliant!”
“Is that all you want, pal? Just the grub?”
“Oh, that and more, my good gray sir!”
The finely dressed man cleared his throat and composed himself from his excitement, “I’ll have one of your self-described World-Famous Chicago-Style Goth Dogs, please.”
“Everything on it? Comes with one fat Vienna Beef grub, cobwebs, pickled raven wings, neon frog warts, rotten tomatoes, diced orphans, an ashing of spider salt, and uh, yellow mustard, all on a steamed bumble bee bun. That sound good? You want that with snake peepers or no?”
“Ooo, could I get that with ketchup instead of the mustard?”
The aged dog vendor slowly looked up from beneath his dusty tweed cap, and sniffed the air in quick succession. The finely dressed man started reaching underneath his coat with the utmost care.
“VAN HELSING, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” The agitated and flustered hot dog vendor whipped his tongs at the man, “I told you to never come back here.”
He hissed as intimidatingly as an old man could, exposing his yellowed fangs.
The finely dressed man dodged the bone tongs. He unsheathed his stake and leapt over the cart, stabbing the old hot dog vendor squarely in the heart, instantaneously turning him into a pile of tweed clothing and salty dust.
Feeling discovered and still a bit peckish, Van Helsing wiped his coat from the old man’s dust, grabbed a boiled grub and a fistful of ketchup packets, and swiftly ran down an alley to continue his magnificently irreverent food journey through Nightworld Chicago.