By: Heidi Kwok, Staff Writer

I’m driving past the PNE, as I do each morning on my way to work, when I catch a fragrant aroma gently creeping in through my driver-side window. My head swivels towards the scent as if under hypnosis. My nose sniffs the air aggressively, trying to pinpoint the source of the smell. Grilled hot dogs topped with cheddar, smoked paprika . . . am I getting a hint of green jalapeños?

My boss is expecting me in half an hour to discuss a discrepancy in the pension fund, but it can wait — those hot dogs aren’t going to eat themselves. I haven’t had a hot dog that smelled like this since before my wedding! Goddamn you, Sheela, for never letting me eat real food. I brake in the middle of a four-way intersection, shift the gear into park, and quickly get out to track down my hot dogs. I thought this smell only existed during the summer! Ignoring the cacophony of angry honks around me, I let my nose lead the way. I am a person on a mission and no one is going to stop me.

Before I know it, I’m at the entrance of the PNE. It’s off-season. Good. That means no witnesses. I try my hand at parkour (which is just groaning as I throw myself to the other side of the gate) and painfully lunge over the admission turnstiles, accidentally waking the snoozing security guard in the process. Oops.

“What the !@#$%*? Hey!! You can’t be here! The fair’s not open ’till August,” Mr. Grumpypants says. 

Too late — the crime is in motion. I can imagine my wife’s seething expression when she has to come bail me out of jail again for trespassing on private property. Oh lord, will the consequences be SO WORTH IT. 

Like a bloodhound, I trace the scent into a dilapidated building on the outskirts of the fair. Pushing past the doors, I almost turn back and abandon my quest for hot dogs at the sight before me. A dark, eerie corridor with water-stained ceilings and yellow walls covered in overgrown vines; broken glass was strewn across the marble floor. Before I thought of calling the casting director of Pawn Stars to take a look at this relic — I then spotted the tell-tale splotches of ketchup splattered in the far corner — oh, how utterly familiar. I must be getting close to my treasure. 

I once again put my faith in my nose and venture deeper into the corridor. Suddenly, a flash of pink in my peripheral vision catches me off guard. Wait — there it is again! Was that the hot dog vendor?

“Show yourself,” I yell, trying to sound intimidating.

Hearing no reply, I continue to yell into plain air, waving a $5 bill in one hand.

“Please! I just want one of your fine hot dogs! I’ll have all the condiments and no pickles!” I fall to my knees, begging the gods for just one shot. One opportunity. 

In my hot dog-intoxicated trance, I accidentally crash into a crowd of strangers. Apologizing profusely, I pick myself off the ground, only to come face to face with . . . myselves? Hang on. There are three of them. Except, they can’t be me. One has an apple-sized head that sits on top of a comically inflated beer belly combined with legs as long as a giraffe’s. I quit drinking beer a week ago. The “me” in the middle has anime eyes and an enlarged head. I am proud of my stature, but this abomination is compressed, barely reaching 3 ft high. The remaining doppelgänger is missing its torso. In lieu of it, the creature has two heads morphed together where my moustache is supposed to be. A trio of legs juts out from both sides as if it is a spider. I am very confident that I only have two legs. 

I scream in visceral terror while my doppelgängers lash out at me.

Running straight ahead, I stumble into a disorienting maze of transparent panels. My doppelgängers follow no matter how fast I sprint. They catch up to me every so often, sucker-punching me with the force of a concrete floor.

Light! I finally escape into the hot sun of the August afternoon. Dropping to the floor in exhaustion, the words on the building catch my eye: “HOUSE OF MIRRORS.” Uh-uh . . . there ain’t no way. That was a fucking house of horror — a monster house, the portal to hell — I had found the derelict, top-secret government site where they keep the failed clones. As that blood-curdling realization dawned on me, I saw my beautiful Toyota Corolla being towed from the middle of the intersection. “NOOOOOO,” I yelled.