I Wanna Be Your Dog - (S&M Iron Works, New Orleans)

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear anything you just said."

Catbite stifled a giggle as she followed Owen to the hot dog cart. The pudgy purveyor cast his disapproving eye upon the punk as she waited. Suddenly, she found herself privy to a fascinating display of male to male nonverbal communication, as Owen and the hotdog vendor negotiated his lunch order through a series of grunts and gestures. Jane Goodall, she observed the scene through the steampunk lenses. Now I’m Jane Goodall.

Her gaze traversed the well recognized Lucky Dog cart. This particular specimen seemed a perfect match for its’ attendant, with it’s large replica hotdog both spattered and chipping paint. The huckster’s ID card was affixed to a ratty umbrella whose “Sabrett” advertisement was shot through with holes. Reilly, I. was emblazoned in smudgy letters beneath a faded black and white photo. As she compared the likeness to the original, Kat found that in this rare occasion could such a picture be considered flattering.

"What about you?" Owen regarded her as Reilly, I. sloppily ladled something akin to chili onto a captive frank. "Whatever she's getting," he instructed the rotund little man as his first bite sent chili over both sides of the bun. As the morsel went down the hatch, he became aware of a disturbingly alien expression on Catbite’s face. Was that amusement? ”What?” he asked at the smirk making its’ way from the corners of her mouth. ”I like the short dogs.”

“Hey,” she lifted her hands in mock surrender. “You drive a Volvo and eat the little weenies…obvious that you’re secure in your masculinity.” Katherine turned to address the hotdog vendor. “Shorty for me, too,” she watched as Reilly, I. fished the greasy water with a pair of tongs. “Mustard, ketchup, and relish.”

Soon, the pair were wiping their hands with tiny napkins from the Lucky Dog cart. “Thanks, Reilly, I,” she lifted a casual hand, the gesture quickly met with a sullen indignation by the vendor. As the pair moved back up the street toward the ironworks, Kat turned in time to see the bloated man with a phone to his ear. “I could be paranoid,” she whispered as they crossed the street, “but I think they know we’re coming.”

The heavy metal door hung before them on its’ track. Catbite struck the hollow surface, her open palmed slap echoing off the door and into the metal shop beyond. “I wonder what a demon cleaner-upper looks like,” she whispered.

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