“It could be a pork hot dog,” Grandma said.

“That’s true,” Lula said. “A pork hot dog’s pretty close to a rib. It’s sort of like a ground-up rib.”

She held the suit up. It looked to be about six feet from top to bottom. The hot dog was in a padded bun and was enhanced with a stripe of yellow mustard.

“It’s a real colorful costume,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind wearing it, but then no one would know who I was when I was on television.”

That sounded like a good deal to me. “I’ll wear it,” I said.

There were holes in the bottom where my legs could stick out, armholes in the sides of the bun, and part of the hot dog was made of mesh, so I could sort of see. I got the thing on, and Grandma zipped me up.

“This is disappointing,” Lula said. “It’s not as good as Mister Clucky.”

“She’s got a saggy bun,” Grandma said.

Connie squished my bun. “It’s foam. It needs reshaping.”

Everyone worked on the bun while I stood there.

“It’s hot in this thing,” I said. “And I can’t see through the hot dog skin. Everything’s brown. And there’s only a little window to look through.”

“I can’t hardly hear what you’re saying through all that padding,” Grandma said. “But don’t worry, we got you looking pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “Dance around. Let’s see what you got.”

“What kind of dance?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Any kind of dance.”

I jumped around a little and fell over.

“This is top-heavy,” I said.

“It don’t look top-heavy,” Lula said. “It’s all one size top to bottom. Imagine if we got a pork chop instead of a hot dog.”

I was on my back, and all I saw was brown sky. I rolled side to side, trying to flip over. No luck. I was stuck in the stupid bun. I flopped around, flailing my arms and kicking my feet. I got some decent momentum going rocking back and forth in my bun, but in the end, it didn’t get me anywhere.

Lula looked down at me. “Stop clownin’ around. You’re scarin’ the kids. You’re even creepin’ out the big people. It’s like someone threw away a giant twitching hot dog.”

“I can’t get up!”

“What?”

“I can’t fucking get up. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Well, you should have said so instead of just layin’ there thrashin’ around.”

Connie and Lula grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet.

“This might not be a good idea,” I told them. “This suit is unwieldy.”

“You just gotta get used to it,” Lula said. “I bet Al Roker will be here any minute. Anybody seen Al Roker?”

Some people stopped to look at me.

“What is it?” a man asked.

“It’s a dancing hot dog,” Lula said.

“It’s not dancing,” the man said.

There was a kid with the man. “I want to see the hot dog dance,” the kid said.

I did a couple moves and fell over. “Shit!”

The kid looked up at the man. “The hot dog said shit.”

Everyone hurried away.

“Dancing hot dogs don’t say shit,” Lula said to me, pulling me upright.

“What do they friggin’ say?”

“They say oops.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

“And that’s a cranky tone I’m hearing,” Lula said. “Hot dogs are happy food. If you was a brussels sprout, you could be cranky. Or maybe a lima bean.”

“I don’t feel happy. I’m sweating like a pig in this thing.”

“Hey,” Lula said. “You were the one who wanted to be the hot dog. Nobody made you be the hot dog. And you better learn how to dance before Al gets here, or you’re going to miss your chance at having a national television debut.”

My stomach got queasy, and I felt my skin crawl at the back of my neck. “What’s out there that I can’t see?” I asked. “Spiders? Snakes?”

“It’s Joyce Barnhardt,” Grandma said.

I turned around, and sure enough, it was Barnhardt. Her red hair was piled high on her head, her mouth was high-gloss vermilion. Her breasts were barely contained in a red leather bustier that matched skintight red leather pants and spike-heeled red leather boots.

“Who’s the hot dog?” Joyce wanted to know.

“It’s Stephanie,” Grandma said.

“Figures. I suppose you wanted her to be the hot dog so it would have a nice straight line. Nothing worse than a hot dog with boobs, right?”

I gave Joyce the finger. “Boobs this, Joyce.”

“What are you doing here?” Grandma asked Joyce. “Are you in the barbecue competition?”

“I put a couple things together,” Joyce said, and she turned to face Lula. “I listen to the police bands. I know all about the Chipotle killers stalking you. And I figure those guys are here looking to put a bullet in you. Or maybe carve you up for barbecuing.”

“So you’re here to protect me?” Lula said.

“No, Dumbo. I’m here to capture the idiots and get the reward.”

Joyce sashayed away, and we all made the sign of the cross.

“I always smell sulfur burning when she’s around,” Connie said.

“I want to do some walking and look at the other kitchens,” Grandma said. “We got an hour before we have to start cooking the ribs.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lula said. “We should be looking for the killers, anyway. I’m all ready for a takedown. I got my gun and my stun gun and some pepper spray. And I got body armor on under this white jacket.”

CONNIE, LULA, GRANDMA, and I eased into the crowd that was slowly making its way past the cook-off teams.

“Look at this group,” Grandma said. “They’ve got one of them drums for cookin’ a pig.”

I couldn’t see the drum. The drum was lost behind my hot dog skin. I turned to look and bumped into a kid.

“The hot dog stepped on me,” the kid said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Excuse me.” I stepped to the side and knocked a woman over.

Connie picked the woman up. “It’s her first time as a hot dog,” Connie told the woman. “Cut her some slack.”

Lula had me by my bun, steering me forward. “Watch out for the hot dog,” she was telling people. “Make way for the hot dog.”

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” I said to Lula. “I’m okay as long as I only go forward.”

Lula’s grip tightened on my arm. “It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The Chipotle killer. Marco the Maniac.”

“Where?”

“Up there in front of us. The guy who’s all dressed up in a cheap suit.”

I squinted through the hot dog skin. I couldn’t see a guy in a suit. “Does he have a cleaver?”

“No. He’s got an ice-cream cone.”

Lula hauled her gun out of her purse. “Hey! Marco the Maniac!” she yelled at him. “Hold it right there. I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

Marco looked around, spotted Lula, and froze.

“Guess it’s not so funny when he don’t have his cleaver,” Lula said.

A family walked between us and Marco, and Marco threw his ice-cream cone down and took off.

“He’s running away,” Lula said. “After him!”

After him? Was she kidding?

Lula had one side of my costume, Connie had the other, and I could feel Grandma pushing from behind.

“Wait,” I said. “I can’t run. I can’t…” CRASH. I knocked over a prep table. “Sorry!”

Lula kept dragging me. “He’s going for the parking lot,” Lula said.

“I see him,” Connie said. “He’s getting into that silver BMW. Who’s got a car here?”

“What about your car?” Grandma asked.

“It’s way on the other side of the lot.”

I wriggled my arm out of the armhole and pulled the keys to the cab out of my pants pocket. “I’ve got the keys to the cab.”

Connie got behind the wheel, Lula sat next to her, and Grandma got into the backseat. I tried to sit next to Grandma, but I couldn’t get all of me in. Everyone jumped out and ran around to my side and pushed and shoved.

“She’s too fat,” Grandma said. “She don’t fit in the door.”

“Bend the bun,” Connie said. “There’s too much bun.”

“Stand back,” Lula said. And she put her butt to me and rammed me in.

Everyone rushed back into the car, Connie rocketed out of the parking place and whipped around the lot. “I see him,” she said. “He turned left out of the park.”