Jonathan Becker was angry. Everything was going wrong; the fireworks were delayed, the juggler was rude, the face painter hadn’t brought enough colors, and the bouncy houses were leaking air. To make things even worse, the food carts were somehow running out of everything only an hour into the event. He stalked about the fairground in a brain-clouding fury, yelling at workers, vendors, and even random bystanders for any reason he could think of. Of course, none of this would help the situation, but he was far too stressed to actually do anything useful.

When he got to the hot dog cart, things started to get weird.

The hot dog vendor had just dropped one in the dirt. He bent down, with a bun in one hand, and put the dirty sausage inside of it. When he looked up, instead of facing his customer, he was facing a glaring Jonathan with his hands on his hips.

“Serve that and you can kiss your vendor’s permit goodbye,” Jonathan said menacingly.

The vendor stared back in what looked like total confusion. Jonathan saw right through it. “Well?” he asked, “are you gonna stare at me all day, or are you gonna throw that out?” The vendor raised an eyebrow.

“Not all day,” he answered, “just until you explain what in the world you’re talking about.”

Jonathan felt like punching the guy; here he was, about to serve a customer a ruined product, and he had the gall to act like he was in the right?

Then he looked down.

He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was providence, or his subconscious fighting the urge to pummel the vendor. Either way, he was utterly shocked.

Because when his eyes settled on the hot dog in the vendor's hands, he found that it was perfectly clean.

His eyes widened, his jaw went slack, and for a moment he just stared, blinking stupidly.

“Well? You want to tell me your problem? Or do you want to get out of my stall?”

Jonathan didn’t look up. He pointed dumbly to the hot dog that he was still staring at. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“You just dropped that.”

The vendor’s eyebrow went up again. “You alright, buddy?”

“You did!” said Jonathan, a little more loudly. “I saw it!”

“Alright, listen up, LooneyTunes.” The vendor sounded angry now. “I don’t know what you’ve been snorting, but next time do it where you won’t hold up one of my customers. Now get out of the way; I’ve got people to serve.”

Jonathan barely noticed as the vendor pushed past him to serve a customer the sausage. He knew what he’d seen, but how could the thing have come up clean? The answer hit him like a ton of bricks, and suddenly, he was furious again.

“You liar!” he snarled, spinning around toward the trickster. “You switched it out when I wasn’t looking!”

The vendor had moved on to another customer, and apparently also decided that Jonathan didn’t exist. Which made Jonathan even angrier. He raised his voice so that everyone on line for the cart could hear him. “GET YOUR HOT DOGS WHILE YOU CAN, PEOPLE! CAUSE AS SOON AS I CAN, I’M KICKING THIS CART OFF THE GROUNDS! NO TRICKSTER’S GONNA PEDDLE ON MY GROUNDS!” By the end of his speech, not only everyone on the line, but also passersby outside the stall, were staring at him. When he stormed off, he told himself firmly that he was doing it out of anger, not because the stares were making him feel stupid for making such a scene. He found a quiet spot, away from the food carts and the rides, and called his assistant.

“Peter Miller speaking.”

Jon rolled his eyes. Peter said that every time he called him, as if he was a business or something. But then, compared to his habit of preserving interestingly shaped potatoes in epoxy resin, this one was actually refreshingly normal. “It’s Jon,” he said, knowing that Peter didn’t trust caller ID. “I want the hot dog cart out.”

“Hot dog cart, sir?” Another odd habit; calling Jon “sir”, like they were in the Navy.

“Yes, Peter,” Jon said with exasperation, “the one you hired. The owner is a cheat and I won't have him tricking innocent customers at my event.”

There was a long pause on Peter’s end of the line. Jon began to tap his foot impatiently.

“Um, Sir, I never hired a hot dog cart.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Well then tell whoever did!”

Another pause. “Well, um, that’s the thing, Sir; nobody did. In fact, there’s none in the entire grounds at the moment.”

“What in the world are you talking about, Peter? There’s one at the carnival! Between the funnel cake truck and the fried oreos cart, just like every year!”

Another pause. “Um, sir, I’m standing between those now, and there’s just empty grass here. No hot dogs.”

For a moment Jon was speechless. How could they have packed up the cart that quickly? It was utterly impossible. He was about to say as much to Peter, in a tone that said he was much more equipped to talk about this than Peter was, when a family walked past just close enough for him to hear some of their conversation.

“I can’t believe there’s no hot dog stand!” the father was saying. “They always have one!”

“It does have one silver lining,” his son told him. “I finally had a convenient place to lay down my prayer mat while the twins rode the carousel.”

“Still there, sir?” Peter asked. Jon barely heard him through his shock. “I’ll call you back.” he said absentmindedly as he ended the call, his eyes still trailing after the family. With an effort, he tore his gaze back toward the food stalls and began to walk toward them. When he reached his destination, he stopped in his tracks, and his jaw dropped.

The hot dog stand was gone.

“Impossible,” he whispered to nobody. Then he shook his head. “It must be another trick,” he told himself firmly, “or maybe I was just gone for longer than I thought . . . I am terribly tired, after all, so I’m probably just not thinking so straight . . .” After some more thought, he decided that a break and a funnel cake was in order. If he was so stressed that he was almost seeing things, he certainly needed it, and he sure as anything deserved it, too. He spun around to face the funnel cake truck.

Only to discover that there wasn’t one.

For a few moments he stared dumbly at the empty space, his mouth working convulsively. He was sure he’d seen it on his way here, and he could swear he’d even heard the sizzle of the deep fryers before he’d turned around. Packing up the hot dog stand so fast might have been tricky, but this was downright impossible. Slowly, he turned around, trying to see if somehow he’d gotten the spot wrong. He made a full 360, but there was still no funnel cake truck in sight. He blinked hard.

The carnival disappeared.

Jon started to panic. He spun around, looking for something - anything - familiar, anything to tie him back to reality, but there was only empty grass as far as he could see. Desperately, he dug his phone out of his pocket with a shaking hand and dialed for Peter.

“Hello?”

It wasn’t his assistant's regular greeting, but at least his voice sounded like it should. Jon sighed with relief; something was still normal, still real. “Peter! I don’t know what’s going on, Peter, everything is going crazy! You have to help me, Peter!”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, sounding confused, “but who is this?”

Jon’s relief fled instantly. His hand started to shake so hard he nearly dropped the phone. “What do you mean, Peter? It’s Jon! You know, Jonathan Becker, the Event Organizer? Your boss?”

“I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number.” Peter really did sound sorry. “I work in construction, and I don’t think there’s a Jon in my entire company! Hope you find the Peter you’re looking for, though. Have a good one!”

“PETER!” Jon yelled, as Peter hung up the phone. “PETER! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME, PETER!” It was too much for Jon to handle. He fell to his knees, and the phone fell out of his hand. Then it was raining. No, it wasn’t rain; it was sweat, pouring from his head, from his arms, soaking through his clothing, stinging his eyes. It was too much sweat to be possible. His ears were ringing, loud enough to hurt. He doubled over, clamping his hands over his ears, and screamed until his throat was raw.

*                     *                    *

Harry was leaning out the window of the funnel cake truck, a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts in his hand. “Hey Barney!” he called as he stuffed a handful of the peanuts into his mouth. “You gotta see this!”

“See what?” his brother called back from the deep fryer. “Another adrenaline junkie hanging from the ferris wheel?”

“Nah, this is way more interesting! Get over here!”

Barney went to the window, grabbed the bag of peanuts from Harry, and playfully shoved him toward the fryer. “Guess it’s your turn to man the serving window,” he said through a mouthful of peanuts. “And don’t talk while you’re chewing.” He leaned out the window and his brow furrowed.

A few carts away, a man knelt with his hands over his ears, screaming at the top of his voice. He was doubled over in what must have been excruciating pain, and soaking wet, as if he’d just climbed out of the dunk tank. Something about him looked extremely familiar. He picked up his head for a moment, suddenly silent, and looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. Then he doubled over again and continued screaming. Then it clicked.

“Hey, I know that face!” Barney exclaimed. “He bought a cake from us around an hour ago!”

“No way,” argued Harry. “I would’ve noticed if a crazy like that was at our window!”

“That’s the thing, he was acting perfectly normal before! Maybe he’s a schizo or something?”

“Maybe it was the cake,” Harry laughed. “If you were the one cooking it, it could’ve had some nasty side effects.”

Barney shook his head and shoveled in another handful of peanuts. “I just hope he ends up alright.” He swallowed, whispered a short prayer, and went back to join his brother at the fryer.

*                     *                    *

ONE HOUR EARLIER

Eli held the steering wheel so tightly that his hands were entirely white. Tyler shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, keeping his eyes glued to his feet.

“You a plumb fool, boy,” Eli growled. Tyler sank further into his seat. Eli’s grip on the wheel somehow got even tighter.

 “When a run gets busted you never, ever, try to hide! You run! Ain’t I taught you that before! Them Staties is thorough, boy! They don’t leave till they’ve left every stone turned, and when I say every one, I mean every one! You could’ve ruined our entire operation, besides for gettin’ yo’ own backside thrown in prison!”

“I’m sorry, boss,” Tyler mumbled. “I just panicked, is all. I couldn’t think straight! I couldn't think at all, boss!”

The older man closed his eyes and breathed deep; Tyler could tell he was counting to ten, trying to calm himself down. His grip loosened enough that some color came back to his hands. Then he exhaled deeply and his eyes opened.

“It’s my fault, son. I remember how it was the first time I got busted; I ran, but only on instinct, not because I was thinkin’ so nice. And I cried like a lil’ baby, too. I never should’ve sent you on such a dangerous run with so little experience. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Tyler muttered. The car was silent for a while.

“What’d you do with the tab, anyway?”

Tyler’s response was too quiet to hear. “What’d you say?” Eli turned to face Tyler; the boy refused to meet his eyes . His response was still lower than a whisper.

“I threw it in the fryer.”

Eli’s gaze whipped toward him. “You did WHAT!”

“I threw it,” the rest of the sentence was nearly drowned out by a conveniently timed coughing fit, “in the fryer.”

Eli’s hands went white again. “WHATCHU MEAN, THE FRYER?!?!” Tyler became mute again. Eli’s neck veins bulged. With a visible effort, he exhaled, closed his eyes, and began another ten-count. This time it was much, much longer.

“It’s ok,” Eli said quietly, seemingly to himself. His eyes were on the road again. “It’s fine. It’s fine! They might trace it back to the oil, but they’ve got no proof that it was us what put it there. No proof at all. No proof at all. . .” He trailed off into an inaudible whisper.

“What about those nice boys runnin’ the truck?” he said suddenly.

“They’ve got me to blame,” Tyler answered helpfully. “They blame me, and we blame them, and nobody can be proven guilty. I threw it in so quickly, and there was so much confusion with the cops breaking into the truck to find me and all, they couldn’t have seen a thing! They’ll never be able to prove it was me!”

“Yeah,” Eli whispered. His hands were gaining color again. “No proof, that’s right. They ain’t got no proof at all. Everybody’s clean. Everybody’s clean. . .”

For a long time Eli whispered to himself, his breathing getting more and more normal. Tyler watched the trees pass by, trying to get his heart to stop thumping and his body to stop shaking from adrenaline. Eventually, Eli broke the silence.

“I just hope they changed that oil before they made more funnel cakes,” he sighed. “I’d hate to see what fried Acid could do.”