Post by Bosko on Mar 5, 2022 12:47:01 GMT -8
Along the streets of Vegas, in a more secluded lot not yet consumed by other businesses, lies a food truck. Bosko's Box. At a glance it appears and serves as any food truck would- offering standard foodstuffs; greasy, hot, wrapped in foil or served in a paper bowl with plasticware and- most importantly- it is convenient and delicious. All ready to be devoured by the masses- appealing most perhaps to those stooped in drink or bad gambling decisions, misfortune, or all of the above.
The one managing this truck, it's namesake, is a plump and generally warm figure, their lower face taken over by a large beard and showing signs of wear everywhere else. Their eyes are often tired, but they are always in an altogether positive mood, happy to converse with customers, happy to share a meal and discuss the everyday tensions living in this city brings to the individual giving their tithe to maintain it. The one perhaps strange thing to the mundane eyes is an item on the menu, a "Far Country Special." It is not nearly as popular as the other items on the list, and most that order it will receive a warm pastry filled with meat, cheese, or vegetables, or all of the above- Burek, the man in the truck will call it if asked.
To those with eyes pierced by thorns, the food truck and it's owner takes on a new appearance. Here the sunken emotions of the most vampiric elements of a city flow and pool, ready to be consumed; a quick and convenient meal of quality and variety to match the food truck's own. Bosko's plump demeanor remains so, but his skin takes on a slightly dull and metallic sheen. Above his beard, his mouth is a pronounced metallic maw- when he speaks, and moves, the sounds of old machinery can be heard rumbling- like old metal joints had replaced all bones. Echoing. It is in his laughter that this effect is the most apparent, as if contained in his stomach were an ancient rusted engine what's dull low roar was of a hunger to fuel it. And by this service, he can do just that; sustaining himself both financially and in the manner required after tearing out of Hell's grasp. The oasis of muddled and mixed emotions is not his alone, and he welcomes most any others to share in it.
Of course, a meal of glamour alone would perhaps seem dissatisfying on it's own, especially when the overpowering scent of foodstuffs is apparent. those tortured souls that escaped Arcadia that walk up and order the strange "Far Country Special" can receive something to pair with the glamour, should Bosko have managed to harvest those ingredients required. The skewered meats of hedgebeasts, goblin fruit pastries, salads of unnatural and shifting coloration with dressing just as strange. He cannot always promise this special menu option, nor any consistency- as his stock is often as varied as their source, and he is often to attempt new creations. What he can usually promise, however, is something delicious. And pleasant conversation to go along.
Another day slowly coming to an end, the sun sets behind the looming buildings long before the sky begins to fully darken. The food truck lights illuminate the growing shadows, and the symphony of cooking joins the cacophony of a city slowly shifting to the night.
The one managing this truck, it's namesake, is a plump and generally warm figure, their lower face taken over by a large beard and showing signs of wear everywhere else. Their eyes are often tired, but they are always in an altogether positive mood, happy to converse with customers, happy to share a meal and discuss the everyday tensions living in this city brings to the individual giving their tithe to maintain it. The one perhaps strange thing to the mundane eyes is an item on the menu, a "Far Country Special." It is not nearly as popular as the other items on the list, and most that order it will receive a warm pastry filled with meat, cheese, or vegetables, or all of the above- Burek, the man in the truck will call it if asked.
To those with eyes pierced by thorns, the food truck and it's owner takes on a new appearance. Here the sunken emotions of the most vampiric elements of a city flow and pool, ready to be consumed; a quick and convenient meal of quality and variety to match the food truck's own. Bosko's plump demeanor remains so, but his skin takes on a slightly dull and metallic sheen. Above his beard, his mouth is a pronounced metallic maw- when he speaks, and moves, the sounds of old machinery can be heard rumbling- like old metal joints had replaced all bones. Echoing. It is in his laughter that this effect is the most apparent, as if contained in his stomach were an ancient rusted engine what's dull low roar was of a hunger to fuel it. And by this service, he can do just that; sustaining himself both financially and in the manner required after tearing out of Hell's grasp. The oasis of muddled and mixed emotions is not his alone, and he welcomes most any others to share in it.
Of course, a meal of glamour alone would perhaps seem dissatisfying on it's own, especially when the overpowering scent of foodstuffs is apparent. those tortured souls that escaped Arcadia that walk up and order the strange "Far Country Special" can receive something to pair with the glamour, should Bosko have managed to harvest those ingredients required. The skewered meats of hedgebeasts, goblin fruit pastries, salads of unnatural and shifting coloration with dressing just as strange. He cannot always promise this special menu option, nor any consistency- as his stock is often as varied as their source, and he is often to attempt new creations. What he can usually promise, however, is something delicious. And pleasant conversation to go along.
Another day slowly coming to an end, the sun sets behind the looming buildings long before the sky begins to fully darken. The food truck lights illuminate the growing shadows, and the symphony of cooking joins the cacophony of a city slowly shifting to the night.