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Ragged grey clouds scudded across the midnight, occasionally obscuring the watery moon that shone its death-pale luminescence over executive parking lot "B" of the Headquarters of the International Brotherhood of Magicians near the center of the Token-Ring of Networkgaard, and the needle-thin office-tower of Dorktank. Exec-B was empty at this hour, the head Uruks and Korprat-Loyers among the privileged few allowed to use it now off in their comfortable suburban bungalows and condominums, dreaming of hostile takeovers.
Yet on one edge of the lot, where the loading dock joined the back entrance, there stirred a lone figure dressed all in white. The figure grumbled to himself as he worked loading a few items into an equally white cart.
"...want something done right...mustard, relish...got to do it yourself...onions, poppy-seed rolls...drat that foolish wight...kosher dills, kielbasa..."
Finally all was loaded. The lone figure turned and whistled, and two H.O.U.S.es (Hyenas of Unusual Size) very poorly disguised as trap-ponies came forth, grumbling in much the same way as their master as they were harnessed to the cart. When all was finally in readiness the figure whipped a white paper hat out of the cart's dashboard, shook it out, cocked it at a dashing angle on his aging head, and took the driver's seat. With another whistle the cart rolled off the loading dock and into the moonlight, revealing the runes deeply graven into the sides of the cart...HOT DOGS...
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