This wasn’t just a Coney Island dog; it was the Coney Island dog, with all the fixins: chili, onions, that suspicious orange cheese sauce, and enough yellow mustard to paint a small house. The mustard, of course, was already staining my nicotine-stained fingers, a permanent amber testament to years of poor choices. Every bite was an act of both desperate hunger and self-imposed torture, the greasy warmth doing battle with the oppressive heat.
Rated for Teens(13+)
Coney Island Dog
Bookmark
Copyright @ All rights reserved








