Frank Wiener's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Frank Wiener wanted the beast-kingdom's costume feast to crown him its most beloved performer. Tonight the crowd would fill the underground hall. And Frank had nothing to show them but a red hot dog costume with a mustard stripe down the middle. He crouched behind the old converted stand and practiced a bow. A bow was not an act. A stray in a bun would earn laughs, then get forgotten by dessert. "You're going to wear a groove in that floor," said a voice behind him. He turned. It was Greta Wolfsbane, the gray old wolf who ran the stand and had fed him scraps since he first wandered down here. She wore her flowered dress and her round glasses, and she carried a lantern that made her shadow huge on the tunnel wall. She looked at his costume the way she looked at burnt bread. "They want a performer," Frank said. "I've got a sausage suit and nothing else." Greta set the lantern down. "You've had something else the whole time. You just kept hiding it." She tapped his chest, where the costume bulged. "That squeaker." Frank flushed under his fur. Sewn inside the bun was a cheap toy squeaker. He'd stuffed it there to muffle the sound. Every step he took made a faint honk, and he hated it. "That's the embarrassing part," he said. "That's the act," Greta said. "A talking hot dog that squeaks when it dances. No one else has legs, boy. You've got a joke built into your bones. Use it before someone laughs first." Frank stared at her. Then he pressed his own chest. The costume honked. He stepped left. Honk. He spun. A run of squeaks poured out like a busted accordion. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded like something a crowd would repeat all night. He worked fast. He tore the muffling cloth loose so the squeaker rang clear. He mapped a routine to the honks, a stomp on each beat, a wobble, a slow melting bow at the end. Greta clapped the rhythm with her gray paws and told him where the timing sagged. By the time the horns called the feast, Frank had an act. He walked into the packed hall and let his first step honk loud. Heads turned. He danced the squeak. The crowd roared, then started stomping along, honking his name in time. He finished on the melting bow. The hall shook with cheering. Frank Wiener was no longer an ordinary stray. He was the squeaking hot dog everyone wanted more of. But cheering has a hunger to it. A large beast near the front, a past crowd favorite by the look of the crown pinned to his cloak, stopped smiling. He rose and pointed at Frank. "One dance," the beast said. "Let's see the stray do it again. Better. Or the feast forgets you by morning."