I had just gotten out of the Lyft down the street from the spectral Bricktown Haunted Warehouse, the original focus of this tale of gastral woe, and was greeted by an excruciatingly long line, one that went for blocks down the street as far as the evil eye could see.
Thinking this was for the local spook-show, under my lonely breath I muffled a silent obscenity to the steady winds.
As I begrudgingly made it to the end of the line, I noticed a couple of women in green vests working crowd control. I asked them if this was the line for the haunted house and they puzzlingly looked at each other; one of them laughed and said that the funhouse was right there—she pointed off to the left—and these kids, dressed in black stockings and stinking of weed, were in line for some rock show at the Criterion.
With far more of a spring in my heel, jack, I went around the corner to the ticket booth of the Haunted Warehouse only to find ghoulish signage that informed me that, due to severe weather, they would be closed tonight, leaving the ghosts and ghouls solemnly trapped for the evening. I fell to my knees and cried into my hands, knowing that, for this night, there would be no greasepaint-heavy scares for me.
Rejected, dejected, and now, hungry, I stood up, dusted off my pants and walked forward, past the alley behind the dark minor league ballpark, where slovenly drunkards smoked cigarettes hidden far out of the public eye. As I turned the corner, however, there stood a new restaurant – the Old Spaghetti Factory, 1 South Mickey Mantle Dr.