He points to the wall on which hangs a baseball bat with a small brass plate beneath it. The plate says “Carl.” The bat, like the stopwatch, has brown stains, but I do not think the stains are chili.

“I am unafraid of Carl,” ADA announces.

The man just smiles. He clicks the watch. “Go.”

There is a tick for every second that passes, but even after thirty ticks, I have not begun eating.

It is standard to eat hot dogs with one’s hands, but the mountains are far too large to pick up. Eating with utensils, such as knife and fork, is another standard way to consume biofuel, but we have not been provided any tools.

ADA has begun eating by bending forward, smashing her face into the mountain toppings, and furiously biting. This is a nonstandard method, and I cannot see that she is making any progress, but at least she is eating.

I begin employing her nonstandard method.

For the first five minutes, my mastication plates do not contact wiener or bun. There is only chili and cheese and onions and relish. I have already had enough. My biofuel container is almost full. I cannot catch my breath. I have biofuel all over my face and in my hair and on my shirt.

ADA is doing better. Her mouth opens and shuts at a blurring speed. I wonder if her jaw is equipped with its own engine. Perhaps its own brain.

I do not know if I can go on. I certainly cannot finish my entire Wiener Mountain. But the stopwatch continues to tick away.

I glance up from a sea of chili and see the man with his arms crossed, scowling at us. He has moved closer to Carl.

Failing to finish means we have to pay.

Failing to pay means Carl.

So, I eat.

And eat.

And eat.

And I learn things.

Here are some of the things I learn:

It is possible to have too much of a good thing.

Getting what you thought you wanted can be painful. Physically painful.

I do not like chili dogs.

I do not like chili.

I do not like food.

ADA licks the last residues of mountain off her plate. She is frightening and impressive. I am neither.

Tick, tick, tick goes the stopwatch.

The watch echoes. The fluids in my head echo. ADA’s voice echoes. She is threatening to do things to me if I don’t conquer the mountain. They involve removal of my head and limbs and internal devices.

I eat. I eat and eat and eat. Dark shadows flicker in the corner of my vision, tunneling, closing in. I think I am dying.

The ticking finally stops.

“Aaaaand, fifteen minutes!” the man says.

We have only sixty-three cents. We cannot pay. We will have to flee with a large quantity of Wiener Mountain inside me, which is stealing.

We will have to talk to Carl.