Japanse New-Girl Monkey Network
Falafels of Doom
This is my spooky story. Everyone needs spooky stories right before Halloween.
On the corner of Railroad and Holly, across from the Little Cheerful, is a big, giant hole with a fence around it. A building used to be there. Maybe it burnt down. Maybe it's haunted-- it kind of looks like it could be. On the concrete slabs covering the bottom of the pit, there are mad grafitti scribblings peeping out from some attempt to whitewash them. There is grass growing. There is a stranded, abandoned shopping cart laying on its side, like some metallic mammoth floating in an industrial, downtown tar pit.
In front of this forlorn, sunken scar is Fatkitty Falafel.
The proximity of these two things should tell you something.
Fatkitty Falafel is a small, red Falafel cart. It sells Falafels and drinks. Fatkitty Falafel is unassuming to the eye, but it's not the sight of it that's dangerous.
Sometimes when I am walking home for lunch, or sometimes in the evening on my way home after work, I will see Fatkitty Falafel on the corner of Railroad and Holly, in front of that barren scen of destruction, and I will brace myself. As I near the traffic light, it wafts across to me, washes over me like a wave-- a glorious wave of spicy falafel-smell that nearly pulls my spirit out of its body.
It's a scent that speaks of far-off lands, of ladies veiled with silks, of lamps with ifrits hidden in them, flying carpets, the ting of delicate bells; dark, lovely, sumptuous spicy scent. My stomach, inevitably, rumbles as I walk past.
A Fatkitty falafel is only three dollars. Even though I can afford one, I dare not. One bite could ensare me and make me the slave of some demented djinn. One bite could lead to a road of uncontrollable falafel-consumption, making me one fat kitty, indeed. Or, most heinously, the flavor of these falafels would not live up to their heady, head-turning aroma, and I would be doomed to numberless days of disappointment, knowing I could never devour something as wonderful as the promise of that scent.
Beware, mortal. Fatkitty Falafels are there, on the corner, waiting to claim your soul!
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