Food Vans, Pie Carts and the dulcet tones of the ice cream seller. No matter where you are and what species you belong too., the urge for a quick or not so quick meal is universal. -- She Who Knits.
The concept of portable food is as old as gather-hunting. It's the concept of pre-prepared portable food that is, perhaps, one of the keystones of civilisation. The technology may differ, but the idea of someone else doing the cooking has appeal. Appeal enough to spring up pretty much anywhere.
A vehicle is not always necessary. Sometimes, all you need is a tray, some ingredients, and a plate of metal charmed with a rune to keep it hot. Onions generally help attract customers, but what Tuck mostly sold was the sizzle. And because he was a Hellkin, he had to be more of an honest businessman than the average Dibbler[1].
As he turned the corner and some of his sausages, there was Pat, Officer of the Watch, ready to perform one of her regular "health inspections" that had become part of Tuck's weekly budget.
Tuck put on his best False Pleasantry and chirped, "Good day to you, Officer Malwright. Which particular example of my wares are you wishing to inspect today?"
Pat looked horrified, her face draining of colour. She was not actually looking at him, but past him. "You asshole," she whispered.
Tuck looked behind him.
Chief Inanala, using the kind of stealth that only Forest Elves like them could get away with. In spite of their armour and the cobblestones under their boots, the Chief had made no sound Tuck could detect. They were looking down their nose at both Tuck and Pat, despite being at least half a foot shorter than both of them.
Tuck instinctively put his spatula and tongs down, and then his hands up. "I don't want any trouble, I'm not breaking any laws, and I would like to know what the charges you may have against me are."
Pat was standing in a stiff salute.
"I had suspected some degree of fraud," said Chief Inanala. "The city taxation offices sent me an enquiry regarding Mr Tuck Felfound's tax declaration of donations to the watch."
"You dared..." hissed Pat.
"I have to balance my books or be investigated by the tax office," said Tuck, hands still up. "My expenses didn't match my sales. I had to declare it as something and... the accounting was exact, Chief. I never over-charge, and I always give exact change."
"Yes. Excruciatingly exact," said Chief Inanala. "So exact that your monthly donations to the Watch total to one Sausage Inna Bun with all the trimmings per diem. Usually whatever high-quality sausage you may have on your menu at the time."
Pat murmured at a level she thought only Tuck could hear. "I will make your life so miserable that you won't want it any more, you fucking snitch."
"Oh, it wasn't Mr Felfound, Officer Patrice Malwright. It was Private Leeds. Who came and asked me which Dibbler I'd recommend for inspection on his new beat."
Pat's face was an open book with large print, and the present page said, Oh shit.
"You may put your hands down, Mr Felfound. Officer Malwright is going on educational leave. And you'd best believe she is going to learn a lesson she'll never forget."
[1] Someone who sells food out of a tray, always moving on from a sales for reasons which may or may not be obvious, depending on the quality of their fare. A word coined by Maester Pratchett.
[Photo by Rich Smith on Unsplash]
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