I was wanderin’ through the back alleys of Gristle Junction this mornin’, lookin’ for a half-decent bootlace or maybe a prophetic smear on a pizza box, when I came across a peculiar congregation of alley cats and curious onlookers near the corner of Bumstead and Vinegar Alley.
In their midst stood a performer—a man? a puppet?—done up head-to-heel like a stringless marionette. His limbs stiff as broomsticks, face painted a shade of joy that only the truly broken understand. But what truly turned my coffee to tar was this: he had hot dogs jammed up his nose and out his ears, like he was tryin’ to channel the wurst gods from the astral plains of Coney Island.
He danced. Well, jerked. Mechanical, ritualistic, like he’d swallowed a polka and couldn’t quite digest it. Every time he twitched, the dogs wobbled—long, limp, mustard-smeared antennae reaching toward oblivion. Folks threw change. One fella tossed a full bratwurst wrapped in a ten.
I asked him, gently:
“Brother, what spirit moves you?”
He did not speak. He creaked.
Then from somewhere deep in his gullet—or maybe a tiny speaker jammed in his ribs—came the voice of a thousand summers:
“We are all meat. Dangle accordingly.”
Raccoon Jasper was disturbed. He fled up a fire escape muttering something about the Meat Oracle of ’93. Blaze the harmonica drag queen wandered in midway, took one look, and whispered, “I’ve seen this in a vision. The Mustard Prophet has returned.”
The air smelled like carnival regret and spiritual indigestion. And just as suddenly as he appeared, the marionette man folded himself into a shopping cart and wheeled away—presumably toward destiny or a nearby deli.
Divination of the Day:
If you see a man exhaling sausages through his sinuses, don’t question the universe—just check your pockets. Something strange is coming, and it’s got condiments.
Until tomorrow,
—Hobo Harry, Rider of the Fried and Foretold
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