Hot Dog Lady - Chapter 9

What followed was chaos on a level that no horror dungeon had ever seen.

The masked player swung.

The sensient sausages leapt.

Chili exploded and buns flew through the air like projectiles.

At one point, a rogue player tripped, flew through a pile of onions, and landed on a giant eyeball.

Mr.

Blink blinked once in sheer confusion, and the rogue rolled off into a puddle of mustard.

By dawn, the rival faction lay defeated, sticky, battered, and humiliated.

Not a single secret recipe had been stolen.

My stall remained intact, my hot dogs untouched, and my reputation as the hot dog lady’s culinary fortress was stronger than ever.

I looked around at my allies, each battered but victorious.

Frier gave a bow.

Mortimer floated proudly, juggling buns.

The eyeball monster blinked repeatedly, as if confirming its loyalty.

Even the sensient sausages had formed a triumphant line, bouncing in sync.

I smiled, exhausted, but triumphant.

They think they can steal my secret.

Huh? My hot dogs aren’t just food.

They’re weapons of flavor.

And my team, my army of chaos.

You don’t mess with that.

Somewhere in the shadows, I thought I heard Vincent’s distant laughter echoing ominously.

But for now, victory was mine.

And the dungeon had learned a valuable lesson.

Underestimate the hot dog lady at your own peril.

The dungeon was unusually still, the kind of stillness that smelled faintly like burnt sausages and impending doom.

I had barely finished setting up the monsters market, a chaotic display of sizzling grills, floating buns, and impatient monsters when the air itself seemed to twist.

A low, eerie hum vibrated through the floor, and the shadows gathered in a swirling vortex.

From the darkness emerged a familiar figure, impossibly tall, wearing a suit stitched from dungeon flesh and shadow, wielding a giant needle the size of a spear.

The stitcher had come personally.

You’ve made quite the mess, hot dog lady, he inoned, voice echoing like rusted chains.

All this chaos, you’ve disrupted my order.

It ends tonight.

I adjusted my apron, spatula in hand.

Order? You mean your obsession with stitching monsters together like some Frankenstein cosplay? That’s cute.

Now back off.

This is my empire.

The battle began in true horror comedy style.

The stitcher lunged, needles flying, while I darted around the market, tossing deluxe hot dogs like boomerangs.

Each dog hit with enough force to stagger even a dungeon SS-class boss.

Frier and the eyeball monster flanked me, curling flaming condiments and rolling eyeballs at Stitcher’s minions.

Mortimer floated overhead, dropping sticky buns to slow the advancing stitchlings.

Sensient sausages zipped through the air like tiny missiles, tripping monsters and players alike.

You rely too much on food, the stitcher hissed, needles stabbing the air with deadly precision.

I smirked, not just food.

Ultimate hot dogs.

I whipped up a new batch.

10-ft long sausages, buns reinforced with magical dough, molten cheese, and chili layered with precision.

I rigged them with a small enchantment fryer had taught me.

bite triggers a minor chili explosion, splattering enemies with gooey flaming condiment.

The stitcher advanced, summoning stitched hybrids of dungeon beasts.

But each time they tried to attack, they slipped on mustard rivers, got tangled in flying onions or were incapacitated by sensient sausages with impeccable aim.

At one point, the stitcher lunged directly at me, needle aimed like a spear.

I ducked, flipped a deluxe hot dog, and perfect timing.

The chili explosion detonated under his feet.

He staggered, screeching as he slipped across the gooey battlefield, crashing into a stack of flaming buns.

Finally, I channeled all my skill and creativity.

With a flourish, I launched the ultimate hot dog, spinning it like a Frisbee.

It struck the stitcher squarely in the chest, igniting an effect Frier had called flavor overload.

The dungeon itself seemed to react.

The stitcher was lifted off his feet by a gust of chily scented wind, needles flailing wildly until he finally crashed into a wall of buns and condiments.

Immobilized, silence fell.

Even a monsters paused, stunned by the spectacle, I stood in the middle of my chaotic market, spatula raised high, surrounded by my allies, the sensient sausages bouncing triumphantly.

The stitcher groaned, defeated but alive.

You are the hot dog lady,” he muttered, as if acknowledging a force beyond his understanding.

I exhaled.

“And don’t you forget it.” The dungeon had learned a vital truth.

Chaos, creativity, and culinary skill were more dangerous than any stitch or boss power.

My hot dog empire wasn’t just surviving.

It was thriving.

And no one, not even the Stitcher, could stop it.

The dungeon buzzed like a festival.

My hot dog stall had become more than a food stand.

It was a landmark, a safe haven, a source of legend.

Monsters, NPCs, and even a few curious players came from far and wide, lining up for my sizzling, overloaded Chicago style hot dogs.

Vincent, of course, hadn’t given up entirely.

He slunk through the corridors, muttering threats and plotting new schemes.

But something had changed.