Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 1

I sold hot dogs in a horror game after their shifts.

The monsters all came to me for a delicious sizzling Chicago style hot dog.

That was until one day my ex-husband Vincent Shaw, addicted to domestic violence, entered the game as a player.

He swung a baseball bat, knocking me out, trying to drag me back to the real world.

When the monsters got off work and found the hot dog stand empty, they went berserk, searching the entire game world for me.

Meanwhile, all players were hunted by dungeon bosses, forced to answer deadly questions.

Did you kidnap the hot dog lady? Player forums even posted an evil bounty mission.

Find the hot dog lady.

On my first day in the horror game, a man in a sharp suit asked me what skills I had.

I thought about it all day and all night, then admitted, “I can make hot dogs.” He looked utterly exasperated, but still handed me a stall and vanished, leaving me with the keys.

I spent half a day cleaning the stall, then returned to the real world to buy supplies.

I opened for business as the blood red moon rose.

Perhaps the spot was too out of the way.

Hours passed without a single customer.

I tried to pet myself up.

The aroma of food will bring them in.

Just be patient.

My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, so I decided to make myself a hot dog first.

I opened a pack of buns, lightly grilling them on the bakeear until golden brown.

The smell began to drift up.

I placed the sausages in the warming tray and toasted the smashed onions on the grill.

Weirdly, the stall had everything.

Bakeear, grill, warming tray.

Nothing was missing aside from a thin layer of dust.

Practically tailor made for a hot dog stand.

Had the previous owner sold hot dogs, too? I shook my head.

This was a horror game.

It was a miracle there weren’t screams echoing around.

Who’d sell hot dogs here? Timing it perfectly, I expertly pulled the buns off the grill, now toasted to a perfect crisp, glistening with grease.

I slaughtered the buns with my special sauce, layered on lettuce and crisp bacon, added two sausages, and topped them with diced pickled jalapenos.

One delicious, mouthwatering Chicago style hot dog was ready, but it still felt like something was missing.

I boiled some spicy chili mac and piled it on top, finishing with a soda.

Taking the first bite, I sighed.

Best damn thing hadn’t changed a bit.

After all these years, I savored my meal, completely oblivious to the fact that the smell had drifted out of the stall, catching the attention of a passing monster.

A pair of old ballet slippers appeared at the stall.

The temperature dropped several degrees, the air chill in a strangely pleasant way.

A chilling voice whispered in my ear, “What are you eating? Smells so good.” Instinct kicked in, and I stood to greet the customer.

“Welcome.

This is our specialty, the super duper deluxe Chicago dog.

Would you like to? I looked around but saw no one.

Then I felt someone standing right in front of me.

I finished.

Would you like one? A small hand struggled to lift a patch of coins onto the counter.

One, please, came the tiny voice.

I leaned over and looked down.