Siren's Pull

Let me tell you a story about someone not much unlike yourselves; a man taken from his home, pulled across space and time like some cheap 90s science fiction subplot to a little city called Siren's Port. Abducted, he nonetheless did everything that he could think of to fit in. He made sacrifices, got a job, changed his whole outlook on life, even accepted that vampires were real. His only family in the whole world were at home waiting for him, for better or for worse, but despite that he soldiered on.

The only thing he wanted to make life on this crazy island better was a real medianoche sandwich. Glazed ham, roast pork, pickles, and Swiss cheese pressed between two slices of Cuban bread slathered with yellow mustard. It took him months to find a place on the wretched island that could make it, slow roasting the pork, baking the bread in a hot stone oven, even using a proper plancha. The smell of the sandwich wafted toward him in this hard-working refugees' lunchbreak, tempting him away from the stuffy office he worked in with the broken air conditioner, slaving away so that the streets could be safe for everyone else.

So imagine his horror when he was served not the delicious sandwich that had been haunting his dreams for months, but this:

[ Abruptly Dexter switches to video, showing - you guessed it - a plate full of candy corn. He sweeps the camera back around to face him. ]

When a man is hungry, a man wants his sandwich. Is that too much to ask?

[ Dexter has a blanket wrapped around him. He's in what seems to be a small office, the glow of a computer screen accenting his features. ] Never thought I'd miss summer in Miami. A high of eighteen degrees? Are you serious? [ He scrunches his face up. ] In June?

Brr. Anyhow, I just wanted to let you all know that my job is officially the worst with all these daylight darkness attacks. Have you tried doing blood spatter when it's been corrupted by the darkness? No, I guess not. I love a challenge as much as the next guy, but I like it a lot more when my job is easy. Less paperwork for one thing.

[ A pause; he hesitates because he isn't sure he wants to talk about this at all, it makes it a little too real. But he doesn't like feeling abnormal, because it draws undue attention to him, and it needs to be addressed. ] Still haven't shown any sign of having one of these supposed 'superpowers' yet. There should be a clinic for that, right? Like for testing?