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Once upon a time, nestled between the whispering pines of Grumblewood Grove, stood a rickety hotdog cart no one remembered putting there. The locals said it only appeared on Tuesdays when the moon was exactly half full. But those who found it swore the hotdogs could grant wishes. Run by a mysterious man named Ol’ Frankfurter Jack—whose beard sparkled like starlight and who smelled faintly of mustard—this wasn’t your average street food. His buns were baked by forest sprites, his sausages ...