Rai’s Life Fountain’s genes, dilute as they were, afforded him some protection from nausea and he regained control over his senses rather quickly.

He might have immediately turned his attention to escape, if he hadn’t been caught by the eyeful of strobes and sparklers on stage, and Cobalt’s pitch of the first contestant. The “West Wind blowing in”, a “master of the level head”, the “Mixed Satay Tournament winner 2 years running” or as most of the crowd knew him, Mr. Nero S. 

Rai closed his eyes, committed himself to another loss, and watched the supposed master make his entrance.

Nero waved to the crowd with one loose hand, nonchalant. He was perfectly ordinary looking person with carrot reddish hair and a slightly more reddish complexion. A little on the twiggy side, though not overly thin; his form was dwarfed by an oversized black tee shirt. He could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. The most remarkable thing about him was indeed his cool detachment from the cheers and lights, strolling in as if he were entering a park. But Rai hazarded a guess that it was less natural charisma, and more likely that he was a little under the weather.

With the swerving gaze of a sightseer, Nero wove his way over the walkway, bowed in a vaguely drunken manner, and settled drowsily at the end of the stage. 

The Nero fanclub huddling nearby had unfolded a banner. Nero, who was only a few feet away, didn’t notice.

The second contestant approached with reduced cheers and even a patch of booing. Rai was somewhat surprised to see a distinguished, angular man older than Nero (whatever age he was), in a loose tan suit, who grinned hard in the direction of the booing. He had a vaguely familiar face, or perhaps it was his attitude that resonated, as he snorted at the hecklers and turned on his toes like a theater actor. According to Cobalt, this man was the “veteran heel of Central eateries” and “champion bone picker” (Rai appreciated that one), the one everyone had grown to love and hate over his past five attempted semifinals, and his name was Kep Albert. 

“Fifth time’s the charm,” Kep shouted into the mic over Cobalt’s shoulder. He gave the announcer a slap on the back and made his way across the stage.

“That’s the way - own it! Five times is nothing to scoff at! But - he’s not the only one with experience,” Cobalt continued, his rabbit eyes gleaming.

Next under the spotlight was a rail of a man. He was a head taller than the other contestants but perhaps only half as wide as Kep. His hair was bleached the faded platinum green that had been trending as of late, combed flat revealing a face that was pale, but oddly puffy from the angle Rai was viewing. The man also sported an enormous grey shirt that made Nero’s sack garment look fitted. There was a whirl of flapping fabric and grey and silver as he crossed the stage. A metallic balloon, Rai mused, in the last stage of deflation.

Cobalt called attention to his ‘nostalgic shape’ and ‘classic form’. “That’s right,” Cobalt said, turning to the sea of faces. “Before being poached by the institutions of our fine Central city, this hero was national champ of the sandy Plateau - that’s right, Basil Paley, Central semifinalist, hails from the far South!”

Some amicable booing from the audience.

“Missed out on last year’s semis, but after an emergency surgery and the maestro is ready to show us what we’ve missed!” Cobalt pulled the mic high as it could reach to catch Basil’s reply. “If you win, you might be going back and facing your hometown foes once again, on Central’s behalf. So how are you feeling, Basil? Up for the challenge?”

“I’ll overlook those unkind views of the good South today, Zip,” said Basil. “And as for how I’m doing? Recovered and ready to eat a dinosaur.”

A sprinkle of hoots and cheers. Any Southerner worth their salt was expected to bring up dinosaurs and Basil was, sure enough, a veteran of the field. Rai tried to think of the farms where the majestic lizards roamed, to wipe the image of a popped balloon from his mind.

By process of elimination, he already knew the name of the final challenger.

The man named Cadoc stepped up, with slow, measured strides. He was young; of average height, possibly below-average weight, with longish, feathery brown hair and a pointed face pinched with anxiety or hunger. To his benefit, he did not seem as muddled as Nero. He too was also wearing a large tee, though it did not look quite as collapsed as Basil’s.

“Some call him a dark horse, others call him the hero of Central. The started beast who rose from the deep - just last year! - and has been on the ascent ever since that day with no signs of stopping for any mere mortal meal. Qualifying this winter after coming out of nowhere and breaking the Holiday Luncheon Cup record - ladies and gentlemen - Mr. Cadoc North!”

Cadoc smile faded nearly as soon as it came, and he hesitated halfway to his assigned post.

“So, what’s going through the mind of Mr. North?” Zip Cobalt asked him, noticeably gentler than he’d been with the others.

Cadoc was still, like he’d forgotten his lines.

Rai noticed the crowd had gone quiet. Cadoc had a silence that seemed to fill a room, his eyes alert as if rifling through all possibilities, all futures, all the people before him individually.

Finally Cadoc murmured, “oh, not much.” His voice was surprisingly high. He paused, still and staring, then opened his mouth again. “Wait, just one thing - please, don’t call me a hero.” 

Cobalt erupted into laughter, and Cadoc was blasted with cheers. Having said his piece, Cadoc shuffled into his spot beside Basil. All four stood in line now, on that lavish backdrop under blazing lights, faced with hundreds of staring eyes and ear-piercing screeches.

Rai shivered, and realized he was begrudgingly impressed with their dignity. The four ‘champions of human appetite’, (as Cobalt went on to say) looked so ordinary that it was obscene for them to be here, to to match the gagging, purple-faced pre-show. Ill-fitted clothing aside, they could have passed for everyday city folk, plainclothes office workers and pedestrians Rai passed on the street and immediately forgot. It then occurred to him that the purpose of the shirts was to stretch. 

Four tables were pulled up, a checkered cloth laid over each of them. The scales were being tested, several times over, on the sidelines. Behind the technicians was an unfamiliar metal block, the size of a shipping container.

Cobalt stood before the group, one finger aloft like a lecturing professor.

“Now, gentlemen. You all know the rules by now, being the best of your respective qualifiers, but I’d like to remind you, no funny business; no taunts, no fights, no touching each others food, table, body parts. You have a fixed amount of water, to use as you will, otherwise you will be eating, eating to your heart’s content. Deductions will be incurred for food that winds up on the floor, and for the usual hazards - reversals. If anyone manages to work their way through their entire tray before time’s up - the trophy is yours. Otherwise, most eaten in weight by the end of thirty minutes will take the win. 

“The winner, of course-” he spread his arms to the crowd. “- will be hopping on a plane to face the Southern champ at the International Meat Cup Finals next month, for a cash prize of a cool two million!”

Screams of delight from the crowd. Head down, Rai mouthed, “two million?” 

Sao was watching, anticipating exactly that reaction. He snickered.

The scales were being set down, and the stopwatch display reset to 30:00. Cobalt was practically hopping from side to side. “Now, the moment of truth: let’s show the audience what you’ll be eating!”

The case behind the stage stairs opened, and a stream of technicians walked inside, and emerged with four plastic boxes, wide as a caskets, and slightly taller. Each required two attendants to heft up the steps and onto the scales. Once in place, the plastic covers were unclipped and the towers unveiled.

The front row was awash with the smell of meat, but an aroma entirely unlike the hot dog marathon that had just passed; this was something richer, weighty with juice and grill charcoal. Before them sat four piles of the largest burgers Rai had ever seen. The beef brought in for the finalists was likely the finest in the hall, Cobalt declared. Southern bred cattle, with secrets of the land passed on from time immemorial, pastured by the palm farms to create a blessing both oily and sweet, a delicacy no matter where they wound up. Professionally ensured medium-well-done - there were a few playful boos - these were to be the perfect sendoff for Central’s champion.

The cheers and chants were reaching a fever pitch, a steady run of names and slogans and the occasional scream of ‘I love you!’ or ‘kick his ass’ or ‘murder those losers’. The competitors took their seats, disappearing behind their respective piles.

“10!”

Cobalt started the countdown and the crowd’s voices swept together to join him. Rai was struck by inevitable deja vu, purple faces, flung crumbs and all.

“Sao,” he called, in the gap between 7 and 6. “I’m moving over there.”

Rai wedged himself past the Nero fanclub to the lefthand side of the stage. Sao trailed in his wake before the wall of bodies sealed up again. “Good call, Rai. Front row was quite a ride, but I can actually see a few faces from here.”

Rai peered up. Nero’s table was closest to this end of the stage. Kep could be seen just past him, removing his jacket, and the top of Basil’s head over that. Not ideal; if Cadoc really was a favorite to win he’d miss it.

Did he really care? Well, it would be something to talk about over coffee, wouldn’t it? To show he hadn’t been blowing steam for free food. No, that wasn’t a good reason at all - he had no real reason to care - he had been swayed by the crowd. So why not just walk away now?

Nero caught sight of Rai’s scowl and regarded him with a bleary stare. Despite the cheers, lights and largess set out before him, his flushed face was loose and unsmiling.

“You and me both,” Rai mouthed.

Though he could not possibly have heard anything, Nero nodded and looked away, scratching a bandage on his forearm. Rai frowned, and leaned close to the stage. Kep, with his jacket now discarded behind him and stretching his arms like a runner at the starting line, also displayed a bandage, wrapped near his elbow.

“One!” Cobalt shouted, “Start!”

Rai pulled back from the stage and the pros leapt into action.

The noise from the fans, which had seemed to reach its peak during the countdown, took off for new, reality-distorting heights. But Rai was doubly taken aback by the finalists - and not in the way he’d been bracing for.

Perhaps it was because he’d had the misfortune of watching Trae binge and feast for years, or because these sort of things started slow, but the semifinalists were all inexplicably elegant in their approach. Standing like sous chefs behind the counter, the first thing Kep and Basil did was expertly tear a few burgers in half. Past them, Cadoc was disassembling his into stacks of bread and meat. Nero, after padding his burger flat like he were smoothing a pillow, bit in as anyone else would. His jaw, though, did take out half of the burger in a single bite.

Nero glanced again to his right. Rai slid back.

They were sufficiently far from the main crowd for him to hear Sao ask, “You need to sit this one out?”

“No.” Rai dug his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to make him nervous.”

Sao smiled.

After a bit of a taste taste (meaning four or five burgers each) the competition began showing some heat. “There it is!” Cobalt shouted, “the dipping! He’s started dipping, folks!” Basil was soaking a fistfull of mashed bread into a glass of water sitting at his table. “That’s what you come to see, classic tricks from a classically trained professional of the sport, you’ve got to love it--” Kep was beginning a similar routine.

Nero was sticking to the tactic of halving burgers with his jaw alone, though at Cobalt’s announcement he slightly increased his rate of grabbing, biting, swallowing. Somewhere beyond, Cadoc seemed to be taking a mixed approach, soaking bread with one hand and halving patties in the other. With only hands visible, Rai couldn’t help but notice the steady, unbreaking cycles, each moving on their own course at a perfect clip. The so-called dark horse had some ambitious coordination.

The crowd surged up against the stage like the incoming tide, and that was when Rai truly noticed the mountain of skill that stood between the masters and amateurs - the ones who sat before them at the semifinals, unlike their preshow counterparts, did not splatter. They bent low over their tables to save falling crumbs, ripped at careful angles, were careful not to waste their water by knocking the glass over with a violent dunk. 

He was beginning to understand Sao’s attraction to the sport - perhaps it wasn’t as majestic as Sao’s words often made things out to be, it was hypnotic. Four seemingly normal humans, each marching in place in their own time with their own motions, like the multitude of parts of a moving display of a toystore window, the winter showings where a miniature train looped around a frosted plastic tree, a ferris wheel turned and mechanical birds waved, and a little puppet choir that rose and fell in time with some sugary tune, mouths winding open then closed, open and closed, open... 

Kep’s palms slammed down on his table. A wrench in the gears. Basil turned. Even Nero, with his persistent stupor, bent for a look. Kep was bouncing in place, a burger in each hand and mouth crammed with food.

“What’s what?” Cobalt bellowed. “Is it time for some jumping jacks? We’re only halfway through, and someone’s already asking gravity for a little help?”

Kep was gagging, rapping his knuckles against his throat. Flecks of foam and what might have been bread were flying from his mouth, but respectfully shot upward so they simply landed on his face.

Footsteps rustled behind Rai, and he sighed. “Yeah, yeah. He knows what he’s doing.”

It wasn’t a lie. Rai supposed trying to pack down food by hitting its container (or in this case, its eater) against the ground was just logical and painful enough to sound like a real tactic. Aside from that, Kep’s face was contorted, but no redder than anyone else’s. A heel, was it? Rai smirked. 

With a final, heel-clicking leap, Kep gulped, wheezed a sigh of relief, and banged his hands down on the table, which send a stack of burgers tumbling. A gasp from the crowd, but Kep was quick, diving forward to enclose his arms around the collapsing structure, and pulling it steady. A few burgers were squashed along the way, but in the end, the floor was clear, and Kep was still in the game.

He exhaled again, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and dug back into his stacks. Cobalt whistled. The crowd loved it.

Ten minutes remained. 

“Say it ain’t so,” Cobalt roared. “A chain reaction!”

Nero had stopped now, cheeks puffed, his eyes strained like a goldfish’s. As if the horror had made itself known only to him, he did not cough, jump or even breathe. At the other end of the stage, Cadoc had stopped too, both hands paused midair. He appeared to be heaving forward in small jolts, as if he too wasn’t getting enough hair.

“Folks, it’s a close one - real close - but our frontrunners have hit a roadblock!”

If he was suffocating, Nero was wholly unimpressed by the experience. To Rai’s eye, he hardly seemed desperate to clear his throat - instead, with a puzzled frown, he twisted his bloated neck to see the other end of the stage, where Cadoc was shuddering with his own throat troubles. Nero watched as Cadoc heaved, jerked, and went still as death, head dropping forward. But the crowd had little time to lament, because he lurched back up, as if springing up from a well-deserved (two second) nap, and continued to devour with renewed energy.

At Cadoc’s apparent signal, Nero looked back at his burgers. After forcing a low, grating breath, he simply swallowed whatever had been bothering him, and continued, none the worse for wear.

Perhaps it was best that Nero did not look to his right after his recovery, because Rai’s expression might have made him stall a second time.

“He just- he was choking, right? You saw that. And then he just- like that.”

“We heard the fans,” Sao said. “Playing it cool - that’s his charm.”

Rai set his jaw.

The clockwork-human display rolled on. If anything, the sole component to run without a hitch, Basil, was faltering more than any of the others. His posture was dropping, his hands sometimes missed his glass when he went for water, and most importantly, his speed was suffering. Between mouthfuls, he coughed slightly. At least that meant he was getting some air.

Time was running out. Kep was losing steam too, but he still picked up burgers at a determined rate, moreso than Basil. Occasionally, Kep tilted his head out of the line to give his ailing neighbor a look of concern. At Rai’s end of the stage, soaring on his second wind, Nero was making short work of the final layer of burgers that lined his tray, stuffing his mouth and jamming down the swampy mixture with his hands and liberal splashes of the water he’d been saving. Unlike the winner of the ameteur exhibition, there was no struggle for air or resistance from the load - no, he was casual as a gardener packing down some unresisting soil. In the flurry of hands and food, Cadoc’s approach was difficult to make out, but he hadn’t stopped - his cycle might have been faster than anyone’s - and at least half the crowd was chanting his name.

Pile after pile disappearing before him, Rai no longer felt repulsed or confused. He hardly felt aware of his own body all, seeing the basic limitations of his kind (human and, sure, he’d go so far as to include Life Fountains in his estimate) broken so brazenly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the stage until the final seconds rang out, and his gaze shot to the clock. The crowd’s voice rang out in chorus, starting with ‘Ten!’

Countdown. This time, he joined them.

By the front of the stage, he saw Trae thrashing with excitement, a dark blur of limbs. He wasn’t sure if Sao was counting too, but it didn’t matter.

His heart was racing as he shouted. “Six! Five!”

“Hold on a minute! Wait! Wait!” Zip Cobalt said, cutting off the collective cry of ‘four!’ He dashed to the opposite side of the stage, with more rabbitlike tension than ever before, and bawled, “Yes! Yes, stop the timer! 29:55, it’s twenty-nine fifty-five! Judges!”

Every inch of salty, pungent air was drawn from the hall and held in a collective breath. Technicians raced to Cobalt’s side to check the scales, the floor, and the contestant to confirm that yes - yes, they had a winner.

“Can you believe it, folks? Can you?” Cobalt was genuinely thrilled. “I’ve been watching great men for a long time, seen hundreds of legends come and go - and not just in the field of competitive eating! But today, we have a true legend. With five seconds left on the clock, our winner is the man in seat number four, having demolished his whole 12 kilo tray! The one who will represent our fine country in the South this spring - ladies and gentlemen: Cadoc North is our champion!”