Trent’s bony right hand maintained a steady tremor as he leaned hard on the railing and ascended the steps that led him to his porch. He paused for a moment in hopes that the tremor would pass, but it didn’t, so he proceeded up the steps even more slowly. Man, things just aren’t the same as they used to be, he sighed, primarily thinking of his body, but also reflecting on the rough day he’d had.

He glanced over his shoulder and looked at his truck, trying hard to remember if he’d locked it up. It was an old truck, designed to hold and distribute ice cream to the neighborhood. What was once a vibrant yellow exterior was now faded with cracks in the paint, though tonight’s sunset gave it a pinkish hue. It had small rusting circles in places with dents and scratches from its years of use. Trent often thought of himself when he looked at the truck. It’s a big, bad world, but somehow we’ve managed to make it all these years, he told the truck admirably. He placed a hand on his lower back and stood up straight, cracking his bones back into place. Man, things just aren’t the same as they used to be, he thought again as he stepped into his house.

The global custard shortage had been brutal so far, and it was hitting people in Trent’s line of work the hardest. Having driven the streets for the past thirty-five years, he’d certainly seen many economic changes in his day, and he always did his best to adapt with changing trends. That’s why he’d switched over from selling ice cream to selling frozen custard a number of years back. Kids no longer had any interest in “boring old ice cream,” as they described it. And most of Trent’s competitors had gone the frozen yogurt route, so Trent, being the only local truck that sold frozen custard, had that part of the market well under his control in downtown Philly.

But with this god-damned custard shortage going on, I’ll be lucky if I even get a dozen customers over the weekend, Trent thought as he stared at the ceiling in his bed. He’d gone to sleep the night prior pondering the custard predicament, dreamt of custard tidal waves flooding the city, and awoken with custard already on his mind. I don’t know if I can swing a price increase and remain afloat. The locals already hate me for increasing my prices the last three years. He rolled onto his side and scratched at a new pimple on his shoulder blade. He ran some numbers through his dusty, aged brain. A quarter increase shouldn’t be too noticeable, he decided. And maybe I could discontinue strawberry for the time being, just until this blasted shortage is over. Dusty brain or not, Trent still knew how to think critically. Discontinuing the strawberry flavor was a good call, as it was the most expensive flavor to restock.

“Are you kidding me, you old, gray-skinned fuck? Another twenty-five cent increase? What, did you think we wouldn’t notice or something? Think this city is just full of a bunch of witless chickens?” He had to have still been in grade school, but he definitely didn’t speak or act like it.

Trent was persistent in trying to get the boy to take the bowl of frozen custard that he had already made. “Look kid, if you didn’t want it, then you should’ve said something before I made it. You don’t want to spend twenty-five extra cents next time, that’s fine. But you’re paying for it this time. And good luck finding anyone else on this side of the city that even sells this stuff!”

The boy sneered at Trent, then formed a wicked smile across his face. He ran around the corner out of Trent’s line of vision, then returned sobbing with his mother by his side. “And, and then..then he told me that I was…a gray-skinned ne’er-do-well and that no one loves me!” he sobbed to his mother.

The boy’s mother removed one of her high heels, reached into the side opening of Trent’s truck and struck Trent hard in the face, puncturing his cheek. “How dare you treat my son like that! You should be ashamed of yourself! And to charge twenty-five measly cents more for a scoop of custard? You sick bastard!”

Blood poured from Trent’s cheek and began streaming into the freezer where the custard was stored. He tried closing the lids, but it was too late. Well, that’s about three gallons ruined, all thanks to this beastly kid, he thought, even through the pain.

Now enraged, Trent turned on the mother, who was casually strapping her heel back on. “That isn’t what happened at all! He’s the one that called me gray-skinned! Him! Not me! I haven’t done anything wrong!” The mother didn’t bother to even look up at Trent. Trent glanced at the boy, who had that wicked smile on his face again, but he started crying once his mom looked over. This damned custard shortage! Trent screamed to himself while he held a hand to his cheek.

“Of course you would say that, you miserable hide. Sure, let’s blame it on the children,” she shook her head in disgust. “Let’s go, son. This man is not well, and won’t be for the few remaining days that he has of his life. You make me want to spew!” She finished by spitting on the truck’s windshield, then walked away out of sight.

The aging man’s tremors returned in his hands and legs and it took all of his strength to remain standing. He stood in the middle of the truck hunched over, surrounded by blood-spattered bowls and cones that couldn’t be used anymore. “FUCK THIS CUSTARD SHORTAGE!” he screamed and it echoed through the downtown streets.

After some time cleaning blood from the inside of the truck as well as parts of the sidewalk, Trent finally made for home. On the way, he couldn’t keep from scratching at the pimple on his back. It seemed to have grown much larger over the course of the day. He attempted to squeeze it, but nothing came out and it only grew sore and swollen.

By the time Trent arrived home, the pimple had become so large that it was physically raising the back of his shirt up. He walked up the steps leaning on the railing harder than ever, but he stumbled at the second step and landed on his left knee. He winced and gritted his teeth, but remained silent and broody. As he cautiously stood back up, he felt a tightening sensation where the pimple was. His skin was stretching. No, not just that. What is…is this thing filling up? he wondered as he placed his hand on the pimple and felt it expanding.

Trent rushed to the bathroom and looked over his shoulder in the mirror. His skin was a little red, but he couldn’t see any pus. It was just a big bump full of liquid. It’s a cyst, Trent realized. At least it’s not getting any bigger. He decided that he’d make an appointment with the doctor, but not until after the weekend. I need to try and sell as much custard as I can before the workweek starts.

He went to leave the bathroom, but he stubbed his toe in the process. “Yowwww! Ow! Ah, damn it all to hell, that hurt!” He stood in the doorframe unable to walk. “Wha..Wait…no, no, not again!” The cyst began increasing in size again, then stopped as the throbbing in Trent’s toe stopped.

Trent looked curiously at the ceiling. This thing started growing when that witch put a hole in my cheek as well, he realized. Feeding his curiosity, he grabbed a pair of nail clippers and intentionally clipped a nail too short. He bit his lip as the pink skin was revealed from where his nail used to be. The cyst grew a little more, but not as much as before. He grabbed a lamp that was resting on the bathroom counter and closed his eyes as he dropped the lamp on his stubbed toe. The pain made his face contort, and the cyst grew again. This fucking thing is somehow connected to my pain. He shook his head, baffled.

The walk to the bedroom was a long one, as Trent tried his best not to inflict any pain on himself as he went. He got into bed and lay on his back, but the cyst was so big that he was unable to lie flat. Turning onto his side, he drifted off to sleep, forgetting about his troubles from the day. Those troubles returned, however, as night terrors took over. He found himself bound spread-eagle with the mother of the boy hovering over him holding out her high heel. She swung it down into one of his thighs and custard flowed from the wound. She continued beating him, custard seeping out of every spot of Trent’s body that was struck. Custard began filling his mouth, spilling out of the mother’s eyes, and coming through the windows of the buildings around them.

Trent bolted upright and screamed. Breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, he looked around his room. “God, this fucking custard shortage,” he said aloud to no one. He tried to lie back down, but the cyst wouldn’t let him. It had grown to the size and hardness of a bowling ball. I need to do something about this thing, he thought.

He walked to the kitchen and fumbled around in the drawers until he located an old turkey baster. He took the baster and a steak knife to the bathroom, and, still soaked in sweat, made a small incision in the cyst. A small amount of yellow pus drained out, but not much. He then inserted the turkey baster into the incision area and allowed it to fill. Once full, he brought it close to his face for inspection. He ruffled his nose from the smell and shook the baster to see its consistency. Pretty thick, kind of like custard. Looks like it too. He squeezed some of the pus from the baster onto his finger and touched it to his tongue. The taste was sweet. Ha! Who would’ve thought!

And that’s when he grinned ear to ear. He quickly draped a cloak over his hunched body and limped to his truck. He pulled the containers from the freezer and pressed the cyst with his hand. Pus and blood oozed between his fingers and dripped all over the containers, overflowing onto the floor. It’s the same color as the real thing! he gazed in amazement. Trent filled all but one container before running out. That wasn’t a problem, however, with his new knowledge that all he had to do was hurt himself. He threw a punch at the freezer door and pus sprayed from the cyst and into the final container, filling it to the brim. Trent smiled to himself, realizing that for him, the custard shortage was over.

Trent waited eagerly in his truck for the day’s temperature to peak. Once it did, he drove very slowly down his main route, a sinister melody coming from the truck’s loudspeaker. He stopped at the busiest park in the area and waited for the children and their parents to run over for some fresh cust. But no one came. In fact, no one even gave the truck a second glance. Trent wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. He hadn’t stopped sweating since being awoken from his night terror. Think, think, think, he stressed as he watched everyone playing in the park, completely uninterested. Think, think…I got it! Remembering that he’d just announced that strawberry had been discontinued, he grabbed the PA mic and shouted from the loudspeaker, “Strawberry-vanilla swirl’s back in stock! Come and get it!”

Everyone’s ears perked up and people began running like animals toward the truck, frothing at the mouth and nipping at each other to get a better position in line. Trent began filling cones and bowls with scoops of frozen pus. Just before making his first sale, a boy stepped forward, having pushed his way through the entire line. This isn’t any boy, Trent thought, this is the boy.

The boy stared up at Trent and Trent stared back. “How’s the cheek?” the boy asked.

Unwilling to glorify the boy’s question with an answer, Trent asked, “You going to ask for the price first this time, ya piece of scum?”

The boy grinned, “Good one, now you’re speaking my language.” Trent immediately realized that this was all just a big game for the boy. He didn’t understand that this was Trent’s livelihood. “How much?” the boy asked.

“Twenty-five,” Trent replied coolly.

The boy scoffed, “I enjoyed your first insult, but this is just stupid.” He pretended to play the fool, “Oh, boo hoo, you got us, Mr. Custard! Good one!”

“Cents,” Trent added.

The boy stopped his charade. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Twenty-five cents.”

The boy gave Trent a look of suspicion. “That’s the cheapest price in the entire city.” He stared thoughtfully at Trent, then grabbed a three-scoop bowl and brought a spoonful of frozen pus to his mouth, careful to balance an even amount of what he thought was strawberry and vanilla. He sloshed the pus around as it stimulated his taste buds.

After a moment, the boy extended his hand to Trent. Trent hesitated, then took hold of the boy’s hand and gave a firm shake.

“Many compliments, my friend. This is the best frozen custard I have ever had.” The boy raised the bowl into the air and the line behind him cheered.

Trent smiled and winked at the boy, his heart never more full of hatred for him, but knowing that he had just enjoyed the last laugh.

Word of Mr. Custard spread like wildfire across the city and beyond. Eventually, Trent didn’t even have to drive around to make his sales, as lines formed even while his truck was parked outside his house. His business grew to a point where he was able to live without any financial strain for the rest of his days. However, his body endured enough strain of its own to make up for it. For all the success that he had from the pus-in-disguise, he didn’t live a single hour where he wasn’t in constant, unbearable agony. The higher the demand for Trent’s product, the more he had to injure himself.

A few years after Trent’s cyst had formed, an infection developed in areas where he’d begun peeling the skin off of his body with an apple peeler. The day he died, customers ransacked his truck to lap up the custard remains. In the process, they discovered what looked like beef jerky all over the floor, but was really ribbons of Trent’s skin. They tasted the Trent jerky and grew unreasonably angry, wondering why Trent had never offered the high quality jerky to them before.

All in all, Trent died with the entire city of Philadelphia hating his guts for keeping the jerky from them, but for those few short years before he died, he was loved. He was Mr. Custard.