Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 8

Next, sentient sausages began hopping out of the warming trays.

I blinked.

Uh, guys.

Jonah grinned.

I added a little magic to the last batch.

They’re sensient.

Can follow commands.

I groaned.

Great.

My food can fight now.

Fantastic.

By the end of the day, we had an army of culinary defenders.

Mortimer the melodramatic ghost.

An eyeball monster with impeccable aim.

Sensient hot dogs.

Frier with his spatulas, Clare and Jonah with knives and kitchen artillery, and the little girl coordinating supply chains like a tiny terrifying general.

I stood at the center, arms crossed.

“All right, let’s set some rules.

No one eats my deluxe dogs without permission.” “And no one.” A sensient sausage bounced on my head.

“Except us,” it squeaked.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.

I give up.

Training began immediately.

Frier taught tactical flipping techniques.

The eyeball monster mastered rolling charge attacks.

Mortimer perfected haunting, distracting intruders while juggling buns.

Sensient sausages learned to leap and trip rogue players, leaving them covered in mustard.

The little girl drilled supply routes with terrifying precision.

By nightfall, the dungeon had transformed.

Corridors were booby trapped with condiments.

Secret doors led to emergency kitchens, and anyone attempting to reach my stall would face a barrage of culinary chaos unlike anything the horror game had ever seen.

I looked around at my allies, all mismatched, absurd, and terrifying in their own way.

I realized that this strange little family, ghosts, monsters, sensient food, and humans alike, had become a force to be reckoned with.

And if Vincent or any rogue players tried to attack again, they would regret underestimating the hot dog lady.

Because my stall wasn’t just a business anymore.

It was a fortress.

My friends were my army, and my hot dogs, well, my hot dogs were basically weapons of mastite.

The dungeon had grown eerily quiet, too quiet.

Frier hovered nervously near the ceiling, tongs in hand.

Mortimer twirled his ghostly cape.

The eyeball monster, now named Mr.

Blink rolled back and forth like a sentry.

Sensient sausages bounced in formation, ready to spring into action.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Clare muttered, wiping her knives.

I narrowed my eyes.

“You’re right.

It’s too quiet, and quiet dungeons mean one thing.

Trouble.” “Sure enough, the first signs appeared at midnight.

A rival faction of players, Vincent’s backup team, notorious for their sneaky skills, slipped through one of the dungeons secret passages.

their target.

My secret hot dog recipe.

I didn’t panic.

Not anymore.

I had allies and a plan.

Round one, the fake floor.

I triggered the hidden pressure plates and the intruders fell onto a soft bed of sticky sweetened dough.

They struggled, arms flailing, while sensient sausages jumped onto their shoulders, tripping them further.

“Ha! Rookie mistakes!” I shouted, tossing a deluxe hot dog like a boomerang.

It smacked one of them square in the chest, knocking him backward into a pile of chili mac bombs.

The explosion was mostly harmless except for the smell.

They were disoriented and slightly nauseous.

Round two.

The condiment maze.

Frier guided me as I lured the intruders into a labyrinth of mustard rivers, ketchup quicksand, and slippery piles of chili.

Mortimer floated overhead, flicking buns down like grenades.

The rival players slipped, slid, and occasionally tried to grab ingredients, only to have the eyeball monster roll over, squashing their hands with astonishing precision.

Clare yelled, “They’re getting desperate.” “Perfect.” That meant round three, the final trap.

I had set up the Pista resistance, the ultimate hot dog gauntlet.

Spinning grills, exploding chili, flying sausages, and enchanted buns that launched like catapults.

Any intruder who made it through would be greeted by my team.

Sentient Sausages, Mortimer, Mr.

Blink, and of course, the little girl in the tattered dress, ready to deploy emergency hot dog reinforcements.

Vincent’s most cunning player, a masked figure wielding a serrated spatula, stepped forward, clearly hoping to claim my recipes.

I rolled up my sleeves and grinned.

Let’s see if you can handle flavor warfare.