The Midnight Vendor
They say if you find the old food cart near the docks at midnight — whatever you do, don’t order the "Special."
The docks were no place to linger after dark.
Locals whispered about strange figures, about boats that arrived without lights, about fishermen who went missing under clear skies.
But for those desperate enough, the lure of a cheap meal after midnight was too strong.
The food cart appeared only once a month — rusted metal, a flickering yellow sign: "Milo’s Midnight Bites."
Nobody ever saw who ran it.
The "Special" was always scrawled on a scrap of cardboard, different every time.
Some said it was the best thing they ever tasted.
Others said they couldn’t remember eating it at all.
Dylan Brooks was drunk enough not to care.
He found the cart by accident, shivering in the salt-soaked mist.
The vendor wore a dark hoodie pulled low, face hidden.
"One Special," Dylan slurred.
The vendor said nothing — just handed over a foil-wrapped sandwich heavier than it should have been.
Dylan tore into it.
The meat was soft.
Warm.
Strangely... sweet.
Halfway through, he noticed something odd.
A gold wedding ring nestled in the bite he'd just taken.
Heart hammering, Dylan looked up — but the cart was gone.
Only the sandwich remained, cooling in his hand,
oozing something dark onto the ground.
The next morning, the papers ran a headline:
"Local Man Missing After Brawl Near Docks — Wedding Ring Found at Scene."
Dylan swore he hadn’t seen a fight.
But late at night, when the hunger gnawed at him,
he could still smell the food cart in the mist.
And sometimes,
he thought he saw something following him —
a figure in a dark hoodie, holding out another sandwich.
Locals whispered about strange figures, about boats that arrived without lights, about fishermen who went missing under clear skies.
But for those desperate enough, the lure of a cheap meal after midnight was too strong.
The food cart appeared only once a month — rusted metal, a flickering yellow sign: "Milo’s Midnight Bites."
Nobody ever saw who ran it.
The "Special" was always scrawled on a scrap of cardboard, different every time.
Some said it was the best thing they ever tasted.
Others said they couldn’t remember eating it at all.
Dylan Brooks was drunk enough not to care.
He found the cart by accident, shivering in the salt-soaked mist.
The vendor wore a dark hoodie pulled low, face hidden.
"One Special," Dylan slurred.
The vendor said nothing — just handed over a foil-wrapped sandwich heavier than it should have been.
Dylan tore into it.
The meat was soft.
Warm.
Strangely... sweet.
Halfway through, he noticed something odd.
A gold wedding ring nestled in the bite he'd just taken.
Heart hammering, Dylan looked up — but the cart was gone.
Only the sandwich remained, cooling in his hand,
oozing something dark onto the ground.
The next morning, the papers ran a headline:
"Local Man Missing After Brawl Near Docks — Wedding Ring Found at Scene."
Dylan swore he hadn’t seen a fight.
But late at night, when the hunger gnawed at him,
he could still smell the food cart in the mist.
And sometimes,
he thought he saw something following him —
a figure in a dark hoodie, holding out another sandwich.
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