The Evil Sandwich

Once upon a brunch I bought a Sandwich from a gnarled and rustic seller ensconced quite gaily in a gaudy booth one inauspicious day.

‘Twas ham and cheese: I remember it well, as if ‘twere but this very toothsome morn itself that I reluctantly but expectantly forked over six clinking dollarim — sponduleks if you will — to that aged and curly purveyor within zir gaudy booth that foul and fractious day.

And though the absence of tomato hinted at the manifestation of dark forces as repulsive as a botched cosmological constant, still I remained initially at least unaware if not absent-minded as to the true and fundamental nature of the Sandwich.

My short-lived ignorance was indeed short-lived. ‘Twas sometime after the second bite, as I recall, but before the third, that the fiendish crusty triangles of that satanic finger food declared their foul intentions, made plain their demonic objective: to provoke an acid indigestion so potent and toxic as to render the very word “stomach” devoid of meaning and/or significance in this or any other reality.

But the gods were smiling through the clouds. Gadzooks! I almost failed to hear the soft, heroic clunk of two antacid tablets bumping against each other in my pocket that very instant. ‘Twas then I remembered that in my other pocket lurked a miniature, fold-up, anti-sandwich rifle loaded with silver bullets.

After chewing an antacid tablet, methought myself to club the sandwich-seller to death with the rifle. Upon which event I retrieved my sponduleks, and gaily went about my merry way upon that grey and mouldy day.


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