The wrong type of corn dog is left to flollop about in the batter like a mattress in the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta.

[ He didn’t really miss a beat coming up with that. Tim traces the nod to the food trucks and hums a little. ]

I think, instead of worrying about whether or not they’re covered in pork belly and french fries, I should be worried about why the god of mischief would want to buy me a corn dog. Second question: is something about to happen to the food trucks?