Much to Shaggy's relief, the fridge was reasonably well-stocked, with more than enough sandwich components to satisfy his cravings. Working quickly, he started to select the most scrumptious ingredients, setting them on the counter one by one. He was feeling refreshed – his zest for life had been simmering at a highly reduced level over the last few months, but little by little he felt his old self emerging. Hesitant, but emerging nonetheless. He rummaged around in a cabinet for a good two minutes before pulling out the weathered cutting board he always used for sandwich assemblage. Aside from Fred and Daphne's room, the house was poorly-lit. Shaggy had grown used to it – he so loved the calm of night that he didn't mind the stubbed toes and difficult quests for cookware.
He set the cutting board down on the counter and returned to the cabinet to find his favourite plate. It was a beautiful thing – its colour a rich jade, with smatterings of cream specks and a small flower engraved in the center. It was well-crafted, having a bit of heft to it, but not so much as to be stressful on his willowy wrists. He and Velma had found it in a quiet little thrift shop in Monterey, two years ago when the gang was at their peak. Spring was nearing its end – the weather was lovely, almost magical. Being so close to the ocean had a powerful effect on the gang, the crisp air and oddly comforting grey clouds kept them alert and happy. They had no problem catching the Fisherman's Ghost, who had been plaguing the locals since the winter before. They were at the top of their game, unstoppable and unshakable in their solidarity. To celebrate, the gang spent a few days enjoying the city and its tourist attractions – strolling through the fisherman's wharf, exploring the vast aquarium, fighting off the cold with hearty bread bowls full of hot clam chowder. On their very last day, Fred and Daphne rested in the motel room while Velma and Shaggy wandered the streets of Monterey, eventually ending up in the thrift shop where Velma found Shaggy's beloved plate. It was a fond memory for Shaggy – he ruminated on it a bit more before shrugging his shoulders and pulling himself back into the present moment. No matter how tough things got, no matter how strained his relationship with the rest of the gang grew, he knew he would always have Velma as his confidante. He smiled warmly as he set the plate down next to his handsome heap of sandwich fixings.
'Now this is gonna be a sandwich to write home about!', exclaimed Shaggy, as he proudly surveyed his ingredients before diving into the nitty-gritty work of sandwich construction. With the lithe movements of a seasoned professional, he removed the twist tie from the bag of potato bread that lay before him and selected three aromatic slices. He placed them on his treasured plate, where they were soon joined by three slices of rye, two halves of a ciabatta roll, and half of an onion bagel. As any competent sandwich-smith knows, meat should reside on the bottom of a sandwich – Shaggy was born with this information hard-coded into his genes, and if anyone were to see him at work they would know without a doubt that he was one in a million when it came to sandwich assemblage. His nimble fingers swiped up papery-thin slices of various luncheon meats and flung them with breathtaking precision; the honeyed ham landed on the ciabatta, the smoked turkey breast landed on the potato bread, the hearty corned beef landed on the rye. The onion bagel remained bare, as he had other plans in mind for it.
Shaggy's spindly fingers reached into the utensil drawer, pawing about til he found a knife as sharp as both his mind and the aged cheddar he was intent on slicing. The knife was milimetres away from the cheese as he heard Scooby walk in. Zoinks, not this again…