Hot Dogs

The hot dogs mocked him. They sat, snug and comfortable in their little wheat hammocks. Their steam was spittle in his eye, their aroma was piles of flaming dung left on his doorstep. The little cup of water by the plate was his only ally, its cold and cooling depths his strength against the tides of the enemy. He looked down the line at his partners in battle, yet rivals in life. Each stood ready on this, the brink of glory. The lord of judgment stood ready, the vertical stripes of black and white seeming fit to equal the scales of the law. His whistle sounded battle’s start.1

His hand jetted out, grasping the first enemy by its midsection. No water, you’re assistance is not necessary now, not now, not this early into the battle. He thought to himself, and his teeth sunk into the poor knave ending its reign of terror before it could possibly begin. Another bite and the enemy was gone, its allies already sweating in fear at his might. Again his mighty grasper went out, taking the next in line bold meat and bun. No water, but soon. He said, and the enemy was likewise vanquished.2

He faced the enemy three more times alone, before finally yielding to the onslaught and enlisting the aid of the water. Three more enemies fell, their demise greased by the water’s cool and clean fuel. As he reached for the ninth foe, he held it out for the water to attack before he threw it into his jowls, only to find his ally fled the battle, leaving behind only two or three miniscule droplets of its existence.3

Sweat broke out on his forehead, his ally had abandoned him, and the enemy still stood strong in numbers. But courage will win the day! He thought. I will not yield! His attack redoubled in effort. Two enemies lay wasted before his might, before the god of judgment let loose the horn to signify battle’s end. With a contented sigh and pat on his stomach he leaned back.4

Eleven enemies fell, and that is no small number. He thought, looking around at his battle partners; only to find that many of them had bested 30 or more enemies. His face grew red with embarrassment; his first battle had not been victorious, but far from it. He was a rookie on this field, but would not allow this defeat to dampen his spirits. Just as he stood to depart the field in honor, the first rumble began.5

It started low, an earthquake deep beneath the crust of his body, before rippling outward onto the plains of his stomach. It was a rumble that brought with it change, horror, plague, and pestilence. It was a sign of the new times, the old times, the apocalypse, and the anger of the gods themselves. This rumble shifted the landscape of the warriors flesh, and sent him running for the nearest altar for prayer.6

Our warrior fell before the god of release and freedom, debilitated by his stomach’s quakes, shaking from the pressure before it overcame and destroyed him. Another casualty in the honorable field of…competitive eating.7