"What chu guys doin?"
"Nothin'!" Swarek, Dov, Chris and Nick surely didn't want Duncan following them.
"Ok, I'll be here flirting with Chloe if anybody needs me," he said. "We're going for tacos and I'm buying!", he offered, impressing no one.
Dov raged at him but only with his eyes. By the time he hit pubetty, this boy was sure to develop frown wrinkles.
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"HOT DOGS FOR EVERYONE!", called out Swarek, turning the Toronto cart area sidewalk into his personal 1700's tavern.
"YEAH!", all the other coppers cheered, as if Canada police work didn't pay them enough to afford their own hot dogs.
"With all the trimmin's!", added Swarek.
"YEAH!" Dov and Diaz chest-butted in pure ecstasy. It wasn't every day these two idiots could afford relish.
"So what did you get?", asked Swarek, his eyes full of expectancy.
"Hot Dijon mustard, country potato chunks, jalapeños, Wasabe and yoghurt-habañero sauce," replied Nick. "And you?"
"Ooh, spicy! I got relish, bacon, caramelized onions and mustard." Swarek eyed Nick intently.
"Mine is kale, pickle spears, tomatoes, avocados and raspberry vinaigrette," said Chris.
"Nice!", interjected Nick while oggling Diaz' sausage with much interest. Swarek saw that and became furious. He controlled his rage long enough to smile at Nick.
"Hey, Collins, wanna try my dawg!?" Without waiting for a yes, he shoved the protruding tip of his sausage in Nick's mouth. Collins circumcised it, but wasn't impressed.
"Here, try it with the bacon," Swarek offerred, turning his hot dog so that Nick could partake of the pork he had tried to keep to himself. That's when it happened.
"Hmm, I love your porking me," said Nick, with a full mouth. This set Swarek's eyes ablaze.
"What?"
"I love your bacon dog," Nick corrected himself, backpedaling a bit. They eyed each other with much subtext, spaghetti Western-style.
"Try mine!" Diaz shoved his pickle speared sausage deep into Collins' mouth. Swarek could have punched Diaz for moving into his own territory. Or better yet, he could have tazed him, however you spell that. No, that formerly hot stud turned whiny weak bitch, wanted to murder him. He had a gun after all, you know. For he was a Canada copper. But moving on.
Swarek was now after Nick's sausage. He figured, if he could appropriate Nick's sausage, surely his star would wane like the moon, and Collins' male and female fan following would be his. All his. Like back when he was a long-haired vampire. But never mind that now! Sam Swarek ventured out in the daylight these days, and that was that.
Nick noticed Swarek's ire and desire. They needed not speak. With much panache, he inserted his sausage into Sam's mouth, waiting as the Canada copper crunched his hot hot dog.
"I'm blind, I'm blind!", cried Swarek into the chilly Toronto noon air as the heat of Collins' hot hot dog bit his senses, burned his tongue and throat and slammed his eyes dead shut.
"Diaz, Lassi!", ordered Collins.
"Dafooque?", wondered Chris Diaz out loud in bastardized French, for he had spent a whole semester in Québec eating poutine and brushing up on his French. So he definitely knew how to wonder in Canadian-French, not to be confused with the French from libtard islamic-invaded France. The man was bilingual. "I am not your bitch, though I could be...", he offered, thinking Collins had called him "Lassie!"
"No, not Lassie, "lassi", dawg!"
Question marks blinked on top of Diaz cute idiot head. He had not studied in Athens, for sure!
"Go in there and bring me a lassi," he asked, handing him a twenty at the same time he was pointing at the Greek deli the hot dog cart was parked in front of.
Diaz still didn't know what it was that Nick Collins wanted but he knew not to mess around when Nick Collins gave him an order. He grabbed the twenty and went inside the deli, promptly coming back with a tray of four lassi.
"Drink this!", said Nick as he handed Swarek a tall glass of chilled, foamy Greek cucumber yoghurt drink with a dash of cumin on top.
Swarek made like Lassie and downed the lassi. White foam dribbled from the corners of his lips.
"Very refreshing, thanks!", he thanked Nick, gratefully.
"HAHA! You look like you got rabies!", quipped Diaz, pointing at the white foam on Swarek's chin.
"No, you look escaped from some crappy and cheesy slash fanfic, and like Perez Hilton altered your pics and posted them at his blog, HA! HA!", laughed Dov who was easily amused over stupid, juvenile stuff.
Dead silence.
"The white...thingy on your chin; it looks like..."
"WE GET IT, EPSTEIN!", snapped Swarek, like he'd never snapped before. With a snap.
Diaz, Collins and Swarek, stood there on the sidewalk, tasting and bumping each other's sausages, drinking and dribbling white lassi, to the malcontent of the Middle Eastern hot dog seller. He thought that was gay. And that was forbidden in sharia.
"Hey! Mine is ketchup, Chicago-style, with seaweed and cumin. So! Anybody wanna taste my sausage?", asked a left-out Dov Epstein.
"NOOO!", cried Swarek, quipped Diaz and retorted Collins in triple unison. If Swarek was mad at the sausage play between Nick and Chris, he certainly didn't want a piece of Dov's disgusting hot dog. No one did.
Dov silently cried in his corner, as the rest of the coppers tasted each other's sausages, while dismissing calls: the Arab/Muslim terrorist immigrants were protected by their dumb libtard Canada government, so they were under strict orders not to intervene while the vermin killed innocent Western White Canadians.
The cops then all headed to the Penny to get plastered. Why waste a perfectly good day with helping citizens and crime-solving when they could just as easily respect the liberal right of criminals to murder and go free? It wasn't their fault that their mamas didn't hug them enough and these rookie coppers weren't about to act like conservative American cops and defend their people. No siree Bob! They made like France and UK and all of muslim vermin-invaded formerly free and beautiful countries and looked the other way, allowing the vermin to chop people in two in peace.