[ WP ] You are a well-loved and extremely popular food cart vendor in your city , a city that happens to be pretty populated by superheroes and supervillains alike . Describe a typical closing night for you .

Some call me king, others say lord, but in this city I am most well-regarded as the Hot-Dog Hero. It's a steel box, steaming hot with the smell of porky water. Within five minutes of at text message, I'm driving with my cart towed behind me, swerving through traffic as the cart swings pendulously behind my vehicle. The old news saying is whatever bleeds, leads. When you're selling discount dogs near the scene of a disaster, you're in the background of a headline. It's free advertising and the customers are plentiful. 
 
 There's rubble everywhere, enormous chunks of cement scattered about and leaning against entire buildings. Before me is a huge crater in the middle of the street. I park my cart, drive off three blocks and run back as fast as I can. With a smile, I turn around the sign. In the middle of ambulance siren and residual marks from eye lasers, I am open for business. 
 
 The paramedics are usually the first to eat. Then the firemen. Then it's the spectators. When a diaster ends, there's always wandering sets of eyes. What happened this time, they ask. I tell them what I've heard on the news and ask for three dollars and fifty cents ( and an one fifty for a can of soda ). At the end of the day when the lines are dead and the city moves on with its life, the drunkards pass through on their final bar sweep with slurred words. They call me the real hero for being open so late. 
 
 When I count my money at the end of the day, I look to the skies and thank my blessings. With my phone I make a call. The man in the mask tells me the bank they're going to hit tomorrow afternoon. I hook up my cart and drive towards my small house a borough over, and look in the rear-view mirror. The thing about hotdogs? You really do n't want to know their origin.
