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There was an inkling, floating around somewhere in Dick’s mind, as to why Jason had demanded they stop in Roseville. Dick just hadn’t paid it much attention. Exhaustion had settled in miles back; hours upon hours of nonstop driving in Jason’s truck could do that. Though if Dick was to be completely honest with himself, it had probably been stolen back in Louisiana, when his younger brother had rolled up next to him, that exhilarated glint in his eye, grinning like an idiot in a 78 Toyota pickup, its yellow paint hanging like dead skin, and told him to get in or walk back to Gotham.
The cracked screeching behind him told him all he’d need to know and preferring not to waste what precious seconds he had left before Jason zoomed off and left him to the mercy of a deranged old man, Dick launched himself into to truck bed, holding on for dear life to the symphony of his brother’s triumphant crows.
And so here they were, a thousand or so miles later in California, parked in front of a place called, the Knucklehead Hot Dog Diner, Jason as giddy as a school girl. He’d mentioned something about a challenge—the Knucklehead Challenge, a fitting name for any who dared try it, Jason included—where one was to consume ten five pound hotdogs topped with three pounds of chili, cheese, onions, tomatoes, and pickles. And if that wasn’t enough—Dick could feel his stomach beginning to protest by just looking at the picture—there was another pound of fries one had to finish as well. All in fewer than twenty minutes.
These people were insane.
Dick watched, slightly petrified, as Jason sidled up to the counter, cheerfully declared he’d complete the challenge, and do it faster than the top time—somewhere around nine and half minutes.
Scratch that, Jason was insane. But really, did Dick need a crazy chilidog challenge to tell him that?
The timer went off with a ping and Jason wasted no time digging in. Chili splattered across his face as his fork viciously attacked the poor hot dogs. The crowd went wild.
Dick sighed. Apparently he did.
Some time and much screaming later, Dick had to admit, Jason was doing pretty well. Things seemed to be going smoothly, but then he hit the fries and Dick could see his brother’s shoulders tense, ever so slightly, and his fork pause, just a moment, in the air, before spearing another clump of potato.
Another sigh slipped past his lips, this time significantly more amused. He couldn’t let his Little Wing fall, not again.
Pushing past the clamoring throng of onlookers, Dick finally reached Jason’s table only to find the man sagging slightly, a quarter of the challenge remaining. He glanced at the clock, 7:39. He could still make it, if he pushed.
Jason glanced at him curiously out of the corner of his eye, popping another bunch of fries in his mouth. Dick smiled warmly and rubbed at his brother’s shoulders, “Come on,” he whispered, breath fanning out across the hollow of Jason’s ear, “you can do it.”
The next forkful stopped inches from his mouth before Jason face erupted in a cheeky grin.
“Anything for you baby,” he cried, sucking up the forkful, and the next, and the next, and the next.
The crowd roared, screams of encouragement rebounding across the diner’s walls. It was like a basketball stadium in there. The owner gazed on wide-eyed as Jason nearly breathed in the remaining chili fries. He glanced at his timer and almost did a double take.
9:02
Jason grinned, grabbing his plate and then presented it to the crowd, bowing as they cheered and cried for him.
Dick shook his head and leaned back when the owner came round with a camera. He wanted his brother to get as much out of it as he could. But seconds before the flash, Jason grabbed Dick and spun him with an arm locked around his waist, forcing him back and caught his lips.
The crowd launched itself into another bout of cheers and screams, only this time a few low whistles pierced through.
Dick’s face burned the moment the flash went off. The owner shook his head and winked at them as the photo slide out. He handed it to Jason and gave him a pat on the back before heading back into the kitchen.
Slowly but surely the crowd dispersed and soon it was just the two of them facing the, unsurprisingly, almost empty wall of successful challengers.
Jason posted their picture—some chili smeared version of the 1945 “Kissing the War Goodbye” photo in Times Square—with a good hard slap. He was grinning harder than Dick had ever seen him—harder than when they’d escaped with the crazy man’s beat up pickup.
Dick eyed the wall and sighed somewhere between amusement and mortification.
“You just wanted our picture on the ‘Wall of Wieners’ didn’t you?”
Jason flashed him a brilliant smile, seven shades of different from the ones he’d just worn for the crowd. It was smaller—quieter—but a thousand times more precious; that rare bit of red sea glass amongst an ocean of rocks. Sliding a bold hand down to Dick’s ass, he steered them towards the truck.