Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 7

Ingredients went missing.

Chili Mac disappeared from the fridge.

The buns were flattened, and one of the magical warming trays was inexplicably coated in a sticky green goo.

Frier hovered nervously.

I’ve seen sabotage before, he muttered.

But this this is personal.

Clare frowned.

Vincent, he hates losing Scarlet.

And he’s obsessed with you.

That’s a dangerous combination.

I bit my lip.

Then it’s time we stop reacting and start striking back.

The first attack came at dusk.

A group of rogue players, clearly recruited by Vincent, stormed the secret chamber through a side passage.

They were armed with stun guns, corrosive condiments, and oddly enough, giant rolling pins.

“Apparently, Vincent had been doing homework in the real world on culinary sabotage.” “I grabbed a tray of steaming deluxe hot dogs.

“Time for the ultimate defense,” I muttered.

“Frier tossed me a flaming spatula.

The skeletal cat batted a jar of exploding pickles toward the intruders.

The battle was surreal.

Players dodged flying sausages while I flipped chili bombs with deadly precision.” Clare hurled buns like shurikens.

Jonah tackled a rogue with a gooey mustard trap.

Even the little girl in her antique dress leaned against a wall, quietly supervising the chaos.

Somehow, I began to see a pattern.

Vincent’s attacks were coordinated but predictable.

He thrived on direct confrontation over confidence and dramatic flare exploit that I realized.

The first hot dog duel was ridiculous and glorious.

One rogue player wielding a triple spiked rolling pin challenged me directly.

I accepted, but instead of a fight, we had a cookoff.

Five sausages, two cheeses, one secret topping, all under a spinning ceiling fan of chili bombs.

I won by flipping the hot dogs into the fan, creating a chili explosion that stunned my opponent long enough for Frier to tie him in aprons.

By midnight, the rogue players had been thwarted one by one.

Vincent, watching from the shadows, growled with frustration, realizing his carefully recruited army was falling apart.

He finally appeared, baseball bat in hand, storming toward my stall.

“You can’t win,” he shouted, swinging wildly.

“I dodged and slapped a hot dog into his chest.

Chili and bacon dripped down his jacket.” “Apparently, I can,” I said calmly, tossing him another deluxe dog like a boomerang.

The stitcher appeared briefly, peering down from the ceiling.

Impressive, he murmured.

She’s not just surviving, she’s thriving.

Vincent’s vendetta failed spectacularly that night.

Not only had I defended my stall, but I’d also discovered his weaknesses: impatience, ego, and an inability to resist chaos, especially when hot dogs were involved.

By dawn, the dungeon was quiet again.

My stall remained intact, my ingredients mostly safe, and my legend as the hot dog lady had grown.

Vincent, however, had vanished, muttering about next time, leaving a trail of footprints shaped suspiciously like sausages.

I smiled, exhausted, but victorious.

Let him come, I muttered.

I’ve got allies, traps, and enough hot dogs to take on an army.

The dungeon had quieted for now, but I knew better than to trust the silence.

Vincent was plotting and the rogue players were probably licking their wounds somewhere, cursing the hot dog lady’s unstoppable recipes.

I glanced around the secret chamber.

Frier hovered near the ceiling, polishing a spatula while the skeletal cat balanced a tray of buns on its tail.

Clare sharpened knives with surgical precision, and Jonah was experimenting with a chili cannon that looked equal parts genius and disaster.

The little girl in the tattered dress bounced in place, eyes wide with excitement.

I realized something.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

I had allies.

Weird, mismatched, chaotic, and terrifying allies, but allies nonetheless.

The first recruit arrived in a puff of smoke, literally.

A ghost with an overly dramatic flare floated into the room, swirling its ethereal cape.

Fear not.

I am Mortimer, the spectral sue chef.

I shall defend your stall with everything you’ve got, I suggested.

Precisely, Mortimer cried, striking a dramatic pose that sent a stack of buns flying.

He caught them midair with ghostly precision.

Not bad.

Then came the giant eyeball monster.

One single enormous wobbling eye.

It rolled in like a tank, its gaze scanning the room.

Frier whispered, “He’s mostly harmless and less hungry.

He loves hot dogs.” “Perfect.” I tossed him a deluxe Chicago dog.

The eyeballs shivered with delight.

New ally secured.