Welcome to the hot dog pizza procurement zone. You may be experiencing some confusion and early signs of a dissociative disorder. This is normal. We have provided this document to help you along in your attempt to obtain a pizza with hot dogs baked into the crust.
These are the questions that are most commonly whimpered, screamed, or whispered through parched, bleeding lips in the hot dog pizza procurement zone. You will note that no answers are provided. There are, after all, no answers.
Q: Why isn't there a drive through? Or a proper building? Why did I have to follow your signs through a drainage ditch, under an abandoned bridge, and into a small hole in a fence of rusted sheet metal?
Q: What's this greyish goop? Why is it so difficult to walk to the next sign through this moat of waist-high bubbling sludge? Who in their right mind thought that floating skeletons would be appropriate decorations for a restaurant?
Q: All the other signs were in English. Why is this one in pornographic stick men and complex math equations?
Q: Why do I hear chainsaws? Multiple chainsaws? Like, a lot of chainsaws?
Q: Is this shed the right place? The hieroglyph of two men fondling each other's breasts was on that last sign so I guess I'm on the right trail, but this is a pretty small building. Where's the menu? Where's the tables, counter, and service staff?
Q: Why did this briefcase have my name scrawled across the front in mustard? Why was the mustard so spicy?
Q: I opened up the briefcase. A pair of coveralls and an explosive collar. Should I wear these?
Q: Where's the PIZZA with the HOT DOGS in the CRUST? God dammit, don't you people know how to run a business? Also, this bomb collar is a little tight.
Q: That trap door scared the heck out of me! What is this place? Some kind of theater, with one seat and no obvious exits?
Q: Thought I saw something move in the projection booth. Hello? There it was again! Was that... Jeff Goldblum?
Q: The movie's starting. I could really go for that pizza with hot dogs in the crust right about now. Wait, did that just say Universal Soldier? Q: The movie's over. What aren't you letting me out? Another movie. Great. Wait, there was a sequel to Universal Soldier?
Q: There was another, and it had WCW wrestler Bill Goldberg?
Q: Six? There were six Universal Soldier movies? Why do I feel as though my life is richer for having seen them?
Q: How much did it cost to get a roof that retracts like that? What's up with the light?
Q: How did I get back outside? Why are there so many mountains, and why is it so much colder than when I arrived? I don't remember my hair being this long.
Q: A table in a frosty meadow. The ground crunching beneath my boots as I approach. A pizza with hot dogs in the crust. A loaded gun. A photograph of a fire consuming my home. The distant sound of laughter registers as my own. How do I know that I can't take everything on the table, that this is a choice from which I cannot return?
Q: Why did the pizza bleed when I shot it? How can something that moves by folding and unfolding itself cover such a great distance so quickly?
Q: Following the trail. I've come across the bodies of others, like me. Some seem to have died from exposure, some from bizarre wounds. I'm hearing more of those strange sounds. It's not alone, is it? I wounded it, and now it's leading to some sort of lair?
Q: I'm inside. Hurt. Covered in sauce. These sculptures - so alien, yet undeniably Goldblumian as well. You bastards. You knew all along, didn't you?
Q: Where's my free mustard drizzle?
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