Stiles drops a mustard bottle on his foot and yelps.
“We were wondering,” Erin says, “would you two be interested in flying to Indianapolis to be guest judges for the next Wienie 500?”
My soul leaves my body. I ascend. I see a vision of myself holding a golden hot dog trophy like it’s a newborn child.
“We accept,” I whisper hoarsely. “Dear God, we accept.”
Erin runs through the basics and says she’ll be in touch soon with the details. I hang up the phone like it’s a live grenade, turn slowly toward Stiles, and whisper: “They want us to judge the Wienie 500.”
Stiles drops the mustard bottle again. “What?”
“They read our application. Laughed. Cried. Corporate hung it up in the Wienermobile garage like it’s the Constitution.”
“No—what do youmean, judge?”
“As in, flown to Indianapolis. As in, they called usagents of the bun.As in, we’re going to be standing on the track in robes and possibly wigs, deciding the fate of six sentient hot dogs on wheels.”
Stiles screams like he just got chosen for The Hunger Games. “WE’RE GOING TO THE SHOW.”
“I gotta tell the guys,” I say, already fumbling for my phone.
I FaceTime the crew because this moment deserves faces and full expressions with real-time voice inflection, not emojis.
Rhett answers first, mid-bench press, shirtless and glistening. “This better be good, McCormick.”
Nash pops in, in the middle of shampooing. There’s a loofah on his head. “Why do you look like you just found religion?”
West joins from what looks like a tent. “I’m on break. If this isn’t about food, I’m hanging up.”
Brandt pops up next to him, dressed in full tactical gear. They’re playing Bootcamp Warriors this weekend.
Pharo and Jax answer at the same time. “Did you butt-dial us or is this real?”
And then Mandy shows up, silent at first, hoodie up, looking skeptical.
I clear my throat.
“Gentlemen. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile program called. They want me and Stiles… tojudge the next Wienie 500.”
Seven grown men erupt like Mentos in Diet Coke.
Nash: “NO WAY.”
Rhett: “I TOLD YOU THAT COVER LETTER WAS GONNA HIT.”
West: “You’re gonna die on live TV and I support it.”
Brandt: “I will personally design your judging robes. Crushed velvet. In mustard tones.”
Jax: “Wait, are there judges at this thing? Like, are you gonna hold up scorecards?”
Stiles(off-camera): “Oh, we’re not just holding scorecards. We’re deliveringjustice.”
Pharo: “Are you sure this isn’t one of those prank calls where someone pretends to be Oscar Mayer but it’s actually like... Jimmy Kimmel?”
“I heard the Oscar Mayer jingle in the background,” I say. “In barbershop quartet format. No one fakes that kind of commitment.”
Mandy finally speaks. “You better not mess this up. This is a sacred honor.”
