Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 4

Citrus strained to bursting.

Who touched my hot dog? The stitcher’s voice thundered across the stall, high-pitched and citrus strained.

Who touched my hot dog? I ducked behind the counter, desperately grabbing whatever I could.

Tongs, a spatula, a rolling pin.

This was not a drill.

This was war.

Vincent froze midstep, his smirk faltering as the first SS-class boss materialized at the doorway.

It was a hulking thing, its limbs too long, eyes glinting like molten gold.

And behind it, more appeared, streaming through walls, floor cracks, even the ceiling.

like the entire dungeon had developed a taste for my hot dogs.

I scrambled to the warming tray, grabbing a few intact deluxe Chicago dogs and tossing them to the nearest monsters.

Miraculously, it worked.

One boss snagged a hot dog midair and paused, chewing contemplatively.

Another followed, tilting its head as if savoring flavors it had never known.

Way they like it, I whispered, disbelief softening the fear.

Monsters, horrific, blood red, clawed, were smiling.

or at least what pass for smiles in this dimension.

Vincent’s face twisted in anger.

What? They can’t.

They’re monsters.

They’re supposed to destroy.

Destroy.

He gestured wildly.

Baseball bats swinging.

You.

The other players around him panicked, scanning the room with blinking detection gear.

Their screens screamed.

Multiple SS class intruders inbound.

They dropped weapons, shields, and anything that rattled when the bosses appeared.

Chaos erupted.

I seized the moment.

Rolling under the counter, I grabbed a bag of tongs, a tray of steaming buns, and the bottle of chili mac I’d made earlier.

Improvised weapons had never tasted so good, or smelled so delicious.

The first boss lunged at me, but I swung the tongs like a batton, slapping a hot dog into its face.

It staggered back, licking the sausage off its claw.

I couldn’t help but grin.

Yes, hot dogs, my secret weapon.

Vincent’s panic deepened.

He barked orders, trying to coordinate his team, but the bosses ignored him entirely, focused only on the delicious smells.

His carefully planned hunt was collapsing into a comedy of culinary warfare.

I darted behind the counter again, tossing another chili maccoated hot dog.

A tiny shriek of delight echoed from the shadows.

One of the antique-dressed kids had returned with her friends.

They began tossing buns to nearby monsters, shouting, “Eat, eat.

Make it super duper deluxe.” Somehow, my little helpers turned the tide.

The monsters, distracted and sad, began forming a semi-orderly line for food instead of attacking.

I leaned on the counter, panting and muttered, “Never thought I’d see the day my stall could stop a monster apocalypse.” “Vincent, livid and humiliated, slammed the bat onto the floor.” “This isn’t over,” he spat before backing toward the exit.

Even he knew he couldn’t challenge a mob of hungry, happy SS-class bosses with my secret recipe in play.

And just like that, the horror game’s deadliest bosses were now loyal customers.

I stood amidst the wreckage of my stall, surveying the chaos.

Chairs splintered, toppings smeared across the floor, buns squashed beyond recognition.

But somehow it had worked.

I had survived.

My hot dogs had survived.

And Vincent, he was going to have to rethink everything.

The smell of burned buns and spilled chili mac still lingered in the air, mixing oddly with a coppery tang of panic.

I leaned against what remained of my counter, wiping sweat from my forehead.

The monsters had finally wandered off, bellies full and spirit satisfied.

Vincent and his gang had vanished, muttering threats I knew they couldn’t enforce here.

But vanished didn’t mean safe.

Not in this game.

I glanced at the wreckage and realized something terrifying.

My stall, my precious hot dog empire was vulnerable.

One wrong move and I’d either be flattened under SSclass claws or dragged back into the real world by Vincent.

Survival wasn’t just about cooking anymore.

It was about hiding.

I needed a plan.

The first clue came in the form of a faint glow beneath a trap door I never noticed.

My stall had never been ordinary.

Why had I assumed it was just a patch of floor in a horror dungeon? Kneeling down, I lifted the door, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness.

“Perfect,” I muttered, grabbing my rolling pin and a tray of buns like a shield.

“If I’m going to hide, I might as well hide in style.”

The stairwell twisted and turned, walls lined with strange flickering sigils that pulsed in rhythm with the dungeon itself.

At the bottom, I found a small room, a literal kitchen hidden beneath the floor.

It had everything.