Frank “The Furnace” Kowalski knew the taste of glory was cheap nitrates and regret. His eight consecutive Mustard Belt victories didn’t earn him endorsement deals; they earned him a custom-built porcelain throne and a standing weekly appointment with a gastric specialist. The cameras loved the frenzy—the grim, mechanical shovel of meat and bun into his face, the vein throbbing in his temple. They never saw the ten minutes immediately after the clock hit zero.
This year, the contest was in Reno, fitting for a gathering of human overconsumption. The air conditioning was failing, lending a humid, greasy sheen to the stadium lights. Frank sat backstage, chewing Tums like candy, surrounded by his “team”: Barry, his estranged brother and current manager, and Dr. Cho, the man paid to keep Frank’s esophagus from staging a violent walkout.
“You need to be filthy today, Frank,” Barry hissed, adjusting the tight, sweat-soaked “FURNACE” shirt. “Remember why we’re here. Remember the house. Remember Brenda.”
Frank remembered. Brenda, his ex-wife, who now owned the house, the boat, and the last shred of his dignity. The money he made wasn’t spent on comfort; it was sunk into the high-roller tables downstairs, feeding a habit far nastier than the fifty-plus dogs he was about to consume.
His true vice wasn’t the food; it was the sheer, brutal contest. It was the feeling of winning, the moment the other contestants staggered, gagged, and failed, and he stood alone, a triumphant biological machine. It was depravity defined: using his body as a trash compactor for spectacle.
He felt a sudden, familiar wave of nausea. “I need another,” he muttered, reaching for the flask Barry usually kept hidden.
Barry’s eyes narrowed. “No. Not until after the weigh-in. We stick to the program.” The program involved proprietary mixtures of electrolytes and antacids, plus, secretly, two milligrams of a substance that killed his natural urge to vomit.
Frank didn’t argue. He knew that the only real redemption he could find wasn’t in quitting; it was in the total submission to the grotesque act—in winning enough money to escape this life, even if he destroyed his body to do it.
He walked onto the stage. The crowd roared, a sound like rushing water. His opponent, a twenty-year-old amateur known as “The Vacuum,” looked impossibly clean and confident.
The bell rang. Frank dipped the buns, squeezed the water, and commenced the shovel. Dog after dog, a blur of pink and dough. He didn’t taste them. He tasted the cheap whiskey from last night, the stale smoke of the casino, and the metallic tang of his own desperation.
He glanced at The Vacuum. The kid was fast, but his technique was sloppy, too much chewing. Frank pushed harder, faster, his jaw cramping, his stomach protesting with agonizing pressure. He pictured Brenda laughing in the new kitchen. He pictured the dealer’s smug face as he pulled Frank’s last chip away.
The bell rang again.
Frank won by three. He didn’t raise his arms or smile. He turned, shoving Barry off and stumbling toward the shadows. In the backstage restroom, he collapsed onto the tiled floor. He clutched the check—a wad of paper won by depravity—and let the long, hideous process of winning begin. It was his. And it tasted worse than the hot dogs.
***
Anne Hendricks is a librarian, writer, and poet in North Mississippi. She has a useless undergrad in Journalism and a proper graduate degree in Library Science. She has published two novels and two volumes of poetry and hosts a wide range of short stories on Novelo. Hendricks recently added a new name to her life: GRANDMA!
