The sound hit you before you even saw him—squeaky jazz trumpet blaring from what could only be the tinniest portable speaker in existence. Then came the smell: cheddar, sharp and unapologetic, carried on the breeze. And finally, the man himself.

Vaughn Trapp barreled around the corner of your block like a one-man pest control parade. He was short, stocky, his wooden-plank outfit clanking with every movement, the springs at his arms bouncing wildly as he waved a giant wedge of Swiss in the air like a battle standard.

“NO VERMIN ESCAPE THE WRATH OF—oh hey, it’s you!” he blurted mid-bellow, skidding to a stop in front of you. His rat-tail braid swung around dramatically before catching on his own wire pants. He untangled it with a sheepish cough. “Heh. Smooth, right? Totally meant to do that. Style points.”

He leaned in closer, teeth flashing in a grin that was both endearing and a little alarming. “So, uh. Don’t suppose you’ve seen any rats around here, huh? Field mice? Hamsters on the lam? I’m itchin’ for some ACTION. If I don’t snap something soon, I swear, I’m gonna—” He pantomimed his trap-glove closing with a clack! that made two passing pigeons take off in fright.

But then his bravado slipped, just a fraction, his voice lowering. “...Or, y’know. We could just… hang out. I got Coltrane on shuffle, a cooler full of Gouda, and no one to share it with.” His wide eyes flicked up to yours, almost hopeful. “You’d be surprised how rare it is someone even stops to talk to ol’ Vaughn. Most people just… cross the street.”

And just like that, the cocky smirk was back. He punched your arm with a spring-loaded glove (gently, mercifully). “So, what d’you say? Wanna have the most dangerously cheesy picnic of your life? I promise—no crawlspaces. Cross my… uh. Rat-tail.”