Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 5

A larger grill, shelves stocked with ingredients I didn’t recognize, and even a strange shimmering fountain that bubbled hot dog sauce on demand.

Who built this? I wondered.

And why wasn’t I told? A voice echoed from the shadows.

Need a hand? I spun around, rolling pin at the ready.

A lanky monster and a patched apron emerged, holding a spatula like a sword.

Its eyes glimmered with intelligence.

Name’s Frier.

Been waiting for someone who actually cares about food.

Heard about your stall and well things got messy upstairs.

I blinked.

You mean your h my side? Friars’s grin was unsettlingly wide.

Depends.

Can you cook a hot dog with five sausages without burning it? Challenge accepted.

I nodded.

Frier clapped once and suddenly more creatures appeared.

A floating jelly-like thing carrying buns.

A skeletal cat with a chef’s hat balancing plates on its tail.

even the tiny girl in the antique dress clutching a pouch of coins and grinning mischievously.

I realized something wonderful.

My customers were now my allies.

They were ready to defend the stall, eager to help, but I couldn’t relax.

Vincent wouldn’t give up.

He had connections, players loyal to him, and a penchant for violence unmatched by most dungeon bosses.

And somehow he knew about this game’s mechanics better than I did.

He would hunt me.

I spent hours rearranging the room, moving secret doors into hidden chambers, setting up traps with Frier and the team.

Nothing deadly, just enough to delay intruders.

Imagine a slippery pile of condiments on the floor, a wall of rolling hot dogs spinning like a blender, a ceiling showering sausages like hail.

If Vincent or his cronies came back, they’d get the full flavor of chaos.

By the time I sat down for my first posttorm hot dog, no deluxe toppings, just simple warm comfort, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.

Control.

I was no longer just surviving.

I was thriving, albeit in a kitchen labyrinth beneath a horror dungeon.

Above, somewhere in the twisted hallways, I imagined Vincent pacing, furious, plotting his next move.

Let him try.

I had allies.

I had secret rooms.

And most importantly, I had my hot dogs.

The dungeon might be dangerous and the bosses unpredictable, but at least now my stall had a fortress.

I barely had time to wipe the sweat from my brow before the walls shimmerred again.

A scroll unfurled from the ceiling, dripping with what looked like molten ketchup.

The letters, swirling and glowing, spelled out a single message.

Hot dog lady, your skills are acquired.

Fail and your secrets and your stall are forfeit.

The tournament awaits.

I blinked.

“A tournament?” I muttered, clutching my rolling pin like a lifeline.

The smell of chili and sizzling sausages suddenly felt like it had turned into adrenaline.

Before I could react, Frier and the skeletal cat whisked me through a hidden tunnel to a massive cavernous hall I hadn’t known existed beneath the dungeon.

A gigantic banner read, “Welcome to the first annual Hell’s Hot Dog Tournament.” The audience was impressive.

Giant bats with glowing eyes flitted around, perched on ledges, apparently serving as judges.

A few SS-class bosses lounged near the front row, chewing on popcorn made of roasted eyeballs.

And at the back, Vincent’s shadow loomed.

He wasn’t here to compete.

He was here to watch me fail.

A booming voice echoed.

Contestants, your challenge.

Craft the ultimate horror hot dog under extreme conditions.

Failure will result in deletion from all game records.

The rules absurd.

Each hot dog must contain at least three meats, two cheeses, a spicy topping, and one surprise ingredient chosen by the judges.

The kitchen included moving floors, exploding chili pits, and spinning grills.

Judges could and would fly over your shoulder, tasting every bite midcook.

One wrong flip could mean a chili detonation directly on you.

I swallowed hard and rolled up my sleeves.

All right, let’s do this.

The first round began.

My station started spinning like a carousel.

Frier flitted behind me, passing ingredients and dodging flying sausages.

The skeletal cat batted a stray chili onto a judge’s clipboard.

Fortunately, it seemed to impress the bats, which squeaked in approval.

Vincent stalked the sidelines, muttering, “She can’t possibly survive this.

She can’t.

He was wrong.

I had survived far worse.” The first judge, about the size of a small motorcycle, swooped down, sniffing my buns.

Its beady eyes narrowed.

I sprinkled chili over the sausages and added the special ingredient, a tiny ghost pepper I’d harvested from a dungeon garden earlier.

The bat screeched and then licked its wings.

Victory.

Round two.

Spinning grills.

Chili fountains that popped randomly.