The sound of the fire-engines loud, sharp siren pierced the air and woke Stefan Korlosfrom his deep slumber. The early morning light shot grey beams into the room through grimy windows and dusty drapes. Stefan coughed loud and grossly into the apartments silence and with a great degree of effort shifted his heavy frame into the sitting position.

The digital alarm clock on his bedside table displayed 7.34 am in spiky red letters. Stefan hated Mondaymornings, but most of all, he hated rush hour in New York City. With a moment of self-regret, he knew that if he did not face his two pet hates, he would never make any money in this city. He had learned that a long time ago, when he first stepped off of the rickety plane from Greece with nothing more than a few dollars in his pocket and a passion for cooking.

“Cooking?!” he thought to himself as he planked himself on top of his porcelain throne in the discoloured washroom. “I haven’t cooked a real meal for someone in almost twenty years”. He lit a cigarette and sat back letting the nicotine course through his body. His thick legs were stiff and tight; his leather-skinned feet were blistered and tough and the nicotine rush made him temporally forget the size of his gut. Stefan was not the image most would use to display the symbol of the American Dream. He was just another middle-aged man, still working on minimum wage, trying to get past in life.

He left his tiny apartment forty-five minutes later and descendedthe urine-smelling stairs to the alleyway. The day was bright but the wind had a bite to it. Other new yorkers hugged their thick jackets close to them and walked with their heads slightly bent against the cold weather. Stefan’sstale breath rose as smoke into the New York City air as he walked four blocks down to a large industrial storage area.

There was an almightycrash as the stutters went up on storage area #1501 and Stefan gazed upon his beauty; his pride and joy. Sleek, polished plastic; smooth, reflective chrome and the dark, rigged grill sat primed for the days work ahead of it. Stefan’s street trolley: Stefan Korlos was a private New York City hot dogvendor. He had took the finance out on this brand new Vendor 8000 only a few months ago and was having massive success. The grill was cooking the hot dogs so they never lost flavour; it was gas powered and energy saving; fit for all weathers; had hot and cold storage for extras and beverages. He was making the best living he ever had and he had been a vendor since he had arrived. Stefan knew he would make a killing with this machine if he moved closer to the middle of Manhattan but he knew that that turf belonged to the larger companies. He stepped foot on there and it was back to being old school, gangster new york city. Stefan didn’t know what would happen, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.