Short Little Stories

You would think that selling Fried Pickles at a Renaissance Faire is a cushy job, would you not?

I mean, number one – you are working in the middle of this onslaught of entertainment. Jousting, costumes, sword-swallowers, knife-throwers! Everywhere you look laughing children and busty ladies in tight shirts!

And number two – fried pickles! Man, is there a finer food in all the world? Those things practically sell themselves!

Unfortunately, it isn’t that easy.

Sam can think of a lot of problems with the Faire. The heat, for one. The merciless, powerful heat. The mud, for another. (When the sun isn’t shining, its raining. Don’t think, however, that that doesn’t mean it isn’t still hot, my friend.) The crowd might seem nice at first, right up until you are bludgeoned in the nose by someone’s latest wooden sword acquisition, carelessly slung across their broad back. And, again, the heat. The overwhelming, agonizing heat.

It’s fine for a day or two. But living with it, day in and day out… is more than most men can take.

And the Fried Pickles? Oh, they are good, no denying that. How can’t they be good, being such a concoction of grease and, well, more grease? Unfortunately, that means all the more people crowding at your booth, hurrying you along.

Being rushed when you are trying to handle food items lathered in boiling grease can be a dangerous thing, yes? And dealing with your own burns isn’t enough – you have to appease every mewling child who bites too quick and finds themself scalded by piping hot pickle juice. Jesus! Do you need to put a freaking sign on every piece of freaking food – caution, prepared in boiling oil, just might be a trifle hot!?!

So yeah, you think Sam’s life is careless and stress free?

Think again, buddy. Being a pickle vendor is serious business.