Moist looked at him over the paperwork. Claude Maximillian Overton Transpire Dibbler, a
name bigger than the man himself. Everyone knew C. M. O. T. Dibbler. He sold pies and
sausages off a tray, usually to people who were the worse for drink who then became the
worse for pies.
Moist had eaten the odd pork pie and occasional sausage in a bun, however, and that very fact
interested him. There was something about the stuff that drove you back for more. There had
to be some secret ingredient, or maybe the brain just didn't believe what the taste buds told it,
and wanted to feel once again that flood of hot, greasy, not entirely organic, slightly crunchy
substances surfing across the tongue. So you bought another one.
And, it had to be said, there were times when a Dibbler sausage in a bun was just what you
wanted. Sad, yet true. Everyone had moments like that. Life brought you so low that for a
vital few seconds that charivari of strange greases and worrying textures was your only friend
in all the world.
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CherryVamp24 мая 2013
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