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 four clinking dollarim, sponduleks if you will, to that aged and curly purveyor ensconced within zir gaudy booth that foul and fractious morn.

And though the absence of tomato hinted at the metaphysical 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 fundamental nature of the Sandwich.

My short-lived ignorance was indeed short-lived. 'Twas some time 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 dark and evil 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.

Luckily, some antacid tablets clunked heroically in my pocket that very instant, as did a miniature fold-up anti-sandwich rifle with silver bullets in my other pocket, that inauspicious morn. Thus ends a tail of good triumphing over evil: 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 that gray and ghostly day.

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