Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Presumptive Cannibalism
Written for Day 17 of the 31daysoffandom October challenge. The prompt I used for this one was "candy"
There were food trucks lined up all along Front Street. Varicoloured awnings flapped in the light breeze, drowned out by the tinny hum of competing radios. The air was redolent with the scent of frying onions, frying dough, frying mystery meat, and candyfloss that someone, somewhere, was doubtless working on a way to fry.
In the dark places behind the glittering facades, where generators hummed and bins stank and workers grabbed a crafty cigarette, Marshall Teller moved with the stealth and ease of long practise. It seemed pretty obvious, or obvious to him at any rate, that the food trucks which had descended so suddenly upon Eerie had nefarious designs upon the townsfolk. Probably involving cannibalism, or at the very least, some form of human sacrifice.
A hot draft, stinking of grease and spicy mustard, ruffled his hair and stung his eyes. Beyond the darkness, a man chuckled and oil hissed on a griddle. Marshall flattened himself against the slick white tarpaulin that marked the rear of the stall, skirting around a patch of yellow light that spilled from a tear in the fabric. Intent on avoiding the probable-anthropophagi who manned the fryers and cash registers, he didn’t notice the other skulking figure until they collided with a mutual muffled exclamation of surprise and annoyance.
Dash’s eyes adjusted first, being more used to making do without electrical lights.
“Teller!” he hissed, clutching a half-eaten cone of churros to his chest in a proprietary huddle of powdered sugar and deep-fried dough. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Marshall shot back with more vehemence than wit. “I’m on an important investigation to save the town! What are you doing, picking pockets?”
“Picking pockets, scavenging, seeing who’s careless with their cash boxes,” said Dash, adopting an air of criminal nonchalance that Mars found infuriating. “So what are they, aliens or ghosts or something?”
Mars opened his mouth to expound his working theory of cannibal food truck owners seeking to devour the unwary townsfolk, when the stain of illumination on the grimy blacktop began to grow and spread as someone pushed the tent flap aside from within. Mars took a vice-like grip on the sleeve of Dash’s trench coat and pulled him deeper into the shadows as a man in a smeary apron emerged, fumbling a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his left ear. The presumptive-cannibal glanced around as if sensing movement somewhere in the darkness beyond the thin beam of illumination in which he stood, and the boys held still until his attention turned elsewhere. When the man was lost in contemplation of the night sky and his cigarette, they slipped around the shuddering bulk of a generator and back under the relative safety of the main thoroughfare, thronged with people and festooned with brightly-coloured party lights.
“I’m pretty sure there’s people in those hamburger patties,” said Marshall, nodding as a family with small children passed by, all three of them smeared with ketchup from the suspect sandwiches.
“Huh,” said Dash, eating a churro and getting icing sugar all over his coat in the process.
“The food truck guys are tricking everyone into eating human meat so we all turn into ravening cannibals,” Mars continued. “That’s how they swell their unholy ranks.”
“Hm,” said Dash. Then, “Do you have, you know, any proof?”
“Then they’ll sacrifice us to their dark g- what?”
“Proof,” said Dash. “Or is this just part of your weird street festival phobia?"
“I don’t... it’s not... I don’t have a phobia!” spluttered Marshall.
Dash shrugged.
“So that’s a no,” he said. “I mean, it makes sense that you’d freak out about street food, what with the chocolate plague last spring, the cheese monster at Christmas, and the sushi outbreak on Memorial Day.” He proffered the rapidly-diminishing cone of churros at Mars, who shied away and nearly tripped over a trailing lead for a truck offering deep-fried Mars Bars. He snickered, and Marshall glared.
“Don’t believe me? Fine,” he said. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that Cornish pastries look like deep-fried hats stuffed with human brains-”
“I think it’s just cheap mincemeat,” said Dash.
“Or that the giant meat hive on the kebab stand looks like a mass of screaming human faces-”
“Okay, but you said the same thing about the trees in the Eerie Arboretum last week-”
“Or that there’s a human forefinger in your churros-”
“Argh!” screamed Dash, flinging down the paper cone in horror. The fried dough sticks tumbled out and lay on the pavement, conspicuously phalanges-free. He glared, and Marshall laughed.
“You’re buying me a fresh batch,” said Dash, angrily.
“You stole that one!” Mars objected, but trailed him to the pink and white painted van anyway, relieved to discover it sold only extruded dough with various non-meat-based sauces and accompaniments.
“I’m serious about the cannibals,” he whispered, as the cheerful moustachioed stall owner poured warm Nutella and freshly sliced strawberries over the steaming pastry.
“Uh-huh,” said Dash.
First Kiss Series
Invitation by froodle, in which Marshall cannot leave the house until he finishes his chores
Puberty by froodle, in which algebra is an annoying thing, but not the most annoying thing
Co-Op by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall have their first ever kiss
Touch by froodle, in which living in Eerie has it's consolations
The Game by froodle, in which Marshall is most certainly not crying, thank you very much
Nature Hike by froodle, in which Dash and Mars disturb a wood sprite
Date by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall have their third official date
Rhinovirus by froodle, in which Marshall and Edgar go fishing, and Mars catches a cold
Gift by froodle, in which it is almost Marilyn's birthday
Fresh Sheets by froodle
Tradition by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall decorate a Christmas tree
So Be Good, For Goodness' Sake by froodle, in which Marshall and Dash go to see Santa
Linens by froodle, in which Dash X makes a bed
There were food trucks lined up all along Front Street. Varicoloured awnings flapped in the light breeze, drowned out by the tinny hum of competing radios. The air was redolent with the scent of frying onions, frying dough, frying mystery meat, and candyfloss that someone, somewhere, was doubtless working on a way to fry.
In the dark places behind the glittering facades, where generators hummed and bins stank and workers grabbed a crafty cigarette, Marshall Teller moved with the stealth and ease of long practise. It seemed pretty obvious, or obvious to him at any rate, that the food trucks which had descended so suddenly upon Eerie had nefarious designs upon the townsfolk. Probably involving cannibalism, or at the very least, some form of human sacrifice.
A hot draft, stinking of grease and spicy mustard, ruffled his hair and stung his eyes. Beyond the darkness, a man chuckled and oil hissed on a griddle. Marshall flattened himself against the slick white tarpaulin that marked the rear of the stall, skirting around a patch of yellow light that spilled from a tear in the fabric. Intent on avoiding the probable-anthropophagi who manned the fryers and cash registers, he didn’t notice the other skulking figure until they collided with a mutual muffled exclamation of surprise and annoyance.
Dash’s eyes adjusted first, being more used to making do without electrical lights.
“Teller!” he hissed, clutching a half-eaten cone of churros to his chest in a proprietary huddle of powdered sugar and deep-fried dough. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Marshall shot back with more vehemence than wit. “I’m on an important investigation to save the town! What are you doing, picking pockets?”
“Picking pockets, scavenging, seeing who’s careless with their cash boxes,” said Dash, adopting an air of criminal nonchalance that Mars found infuriating. “So what are they, aliens or ghosts or something?”
Mars opened his mouth to expound his working theory of cannibal food truck owners seeking to devour the unwary townsfolk, when the stain of illumination on the grimy blacktop began to grow and spread as someone pushed the tent flap aside from within. Mars took a vice-like grip on the sleeve of Dash’s trench coat and pulled him deeper into the shadows as a man in a smeary apron emerged, fumbling a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his left ear. The presumptive-cannibal glanced around as if sensing movement somewhere in the darkness beyond the thin beam of illumination in which he stood, and the boys held still until his attention turned elsewhere. When the man was lost in contemplation of the night sky and his cigarette, they slipped around the shuddering bulk of a generator and back under the relative safety of the main thoroughfare, thronged with people and festooned with brightly-coloured party lights.
“I’m pretty sure there’s people in those hamburger patties,” said Marshall, nodding as a family with small children passed by, all three of them smeared with ketchup from the suspect sandwiches.
“Huh,” said Dash, eating a churro and getting icing sugar all over his coat in the process.
“The food truck guys are tricking everyone into eating human meat so we all turn into ravening cannibals,” Mars continued. “That’s how they swell their unholy ranks.”
“Hm,” said Dash. Then, “Do you have, you know, any proof?”
“Then they’ll sacrifice us to their dark g- what?”
“Proof,” said Dash. “Or is this just part of your weird street festival phobia?"
“I don’t... it’s not... I don’t have a phobia!” spluttered Marshall.
Dash shrugged.
“So that’s a no,” he said. “I mean, it makes sense that you’d freak out about street food, what with the chocolate plague last spring, the cheese monster at Christmas, and the sushi outbreak on Memorial Day.” He proffered the rapidly-diminishing cone of churros at Mars, who shied away and nearly tripped over a trailing lead for a truck offering deep-fried Mars Bars. He snickered, and Marshall glared.
“Don’t believe me? Fine,” he said. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that Cornish pastries look like deep-fried hats stuffed with human brains-”
“I think it’s just cheap mincemeat,” said Dash.
“Or that the giant meat hive on the kebab stand looks like a mass of screaming human faces-”
“Okay, but you said the same thing about the trees in the Eerie Arboretum last week-”
“Or that there’s a human forefinger in your churros-”
“Argh!” screamed Dash, flinging down the paper cone in horror. The fried dough sticks tumbled out and lay on the pavement, conspicuously phalanges-free. He glared, and Marshall laughed.
“You’re buying me a fresh batch,” said Dash, angrily.
“You stole that one!” Mars objected, but trailed him to the pink and white painted van anyway, relieved to discover it sold only extruded dough with various non-meat-based sauces and accompaniments.
“I’m serious about the cannibals,” he whispered, as the cheerful moustachioed stall owner poured warm Nutella and freshly sliced strawberries over the steaming pastry.
“Uh-huh,” said Dash.
First Kiss Series
Invitation by froodle, in which Marshall cannot leave the house until he finishes his chores
Puberty by froodle, in which algebra is an annoying thing, but not the most annoying thing
Co-Op by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall have their first ever kiss
Touch by froodle, in which living in Eerie has it's consolations
The Game by froodle, in which Marshall is most certainly not crying, thank you very much
Nature Hike by froodle, in which Dash and Mars disturb a wood sprite
Date by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall have their third official date
Rhinovirus by froodle, in which Marshall and Edgar go fishing, and Mars catches a cold
Gift by froodle, in which it is almost Marilyn's birthday
Fresh Sheets by froodle
Tradition by froodle, in which Dash and Marshall decorate a Christmas tree
So Be Good, For Goodness' Sake by froodle, in which Marshall and Dash go to see Santa
Linens by froodle, in which Dash X makes a bed