Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if theres one thing you dont want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events its beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in.Burst of static in his right ear: G-man, you read me? Whats yo twenty, dawg?Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. Concession stand, Section B. Over.Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: Yo, Im in position. Ready when you is.Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.
