Sandwichmaker of the North
by Joshua Blanc
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Tark surveyed the terrain ahead. Chunks of ice and perilous snow-
drifts seemed to stretch for miles. To the left was a ravine. He would
have to keep his wits about him in this treacherous place. He wiped the
frost from his face, then spurred the snow-squirrels onward into the
bitter wind. A chill of minus thirty was blowing across the tundra, but
the squirrels could handle it. They were bred tough, like the land that
spawned them. With squeaks and chitters they scurried over another snow drift. The sled, laden with precious sandwich-fixin's, rocked violently. With Tark at the helm to steady it, not one piece of white-bread, nor pickle, nor slice of salami sausage would go astray. The cargo was far too important to lose to the coyote or ... sasquatch. Yes, the wily sasquatch had dogged him every step of the journey through the badlands. He could sense its lust for prime lunchmeat and sauerkraut, almost smell its horrid musk. Now, over the next rise, he saw it -- grand Podunk, where the townsfolk anticipated his arrival. Today there would be a feast of the finest sandwiches in the land. Tark Svensel, Sandwichmaker of the North, would not let them down. Tark felt the sled rock, and the squirrels squealed a warning cry. Sasquatch! Tark dived into the snow as the hairy beast leapt out from behind an ice formation. It let out a bellow which sent shivers up his spine. "Protect the fixin's, my furry friends!" he yelled. From the corner of his eye he saw the Squirrels drag the sled to safety. Though his limbs ached from the cold, the thrill of combat renewed his stamina. He unholstered his cheese-slicer, and took the fine cheddar from his stayfresh pocket. A hairy arm swiped at him, and he ducked between the creature's legs. "You hungry, sasquatch?" He unwrapped the cheese, and the sasquatch roared at the smell of it. Tark backed away, stumbled in the deep snow. Through the sasquatch's dense, matted hair, he could see its brown eyes -- burning with animal fury. Another hairy arm lashed out, and claws tore through his thick anorak and grazed his flesh. Where he'd been standing there was now a deep gash in the snow. The Sasquatch raised its arms for another attack. Tark rolled down the other side of the drift, and teetered at the edge of the ravine he'd spotted. Wisps of icy air billowed up from the blueness, and blackness, below. As he got to his feet, the sasquatch appeared over the drift. It bared its teeth, then charged with surprising agility over the snow. This was it. Slice, slice, slice, and it was done. Tark backflipped over the ravine, dropping the cheese as he did so, and the sasquatch followed it to a cold and cheesy death. Tark bowed his head and said a silent prayer for the creature. He whistled for the squirrels. They scurried up to him, chittering nervously, but with the sled and cargo intact. "Onward, squirrels -- we've got a town to feed!" |