"Sandwiches up!" Smush said, swerving out of the kitchen with two towering dagwoods.
Mogey sat at the barrel that he, Smush, and their four other roommates used as a table, slavering like a wolf whose grandma just made her famous triple cheeseburger linguini.
"Hear, hear!" Mogey commended his pal. "A prodigious effort!"
Mogey was (shockingly) correct: the sandwich Smush had delivered stood at least a foot high, and contained four different meats, two varietals of fried potato, six sauces, and zero fresh vegetables.
Each pal hefted his respective tall stack, opened his maw, and gobbled a bite.
"PTOOIE!" Mogey spluttered, spraying half-chewed dagwood onto the wall. "What is that foul, sour flavor?"
"You mean mustard?" Smush demanded. "You asked for mustard!"
"That's not mustard. Lovely, cold, sweet, eggy mustard would never taste of vinegar and rot!"
"Are you sure you're not thinking of custard?"
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," said Mogey, snapping his finger regretfully. "Custard!"
"On a sandwich?" Smush exclaimed.
"Better make it two scoops," Mogey muttered, seizing his plate and heading for the ice chest. "That ought to be enough to cover up the nasty mustard taste."
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