A single gigantic stand bore the sign:
"Ramen King / Queen / Whatever Contest"
with slightly smaller text below:
Prize: fame, more fame, but on a very local scale. You know… within the tight circles of your nonexistent friends, plus an honorary amphora of noodles. The mortgage won't pay itself, so no money is provided.
Behind the stand fluttered a medieval-style tent, rustling in the wind, complete with a flagpole and the obligatory weather vane shaped like a rooster. From it emerged Viktor Tarantella.
He now wore an updated jester's outfit, with long flowing sleeves and cuffs — but still the same balaclava, topped with a bell-covered cap.
— My apologies, but today really isn't a very profitable day. And when the gallery doesn't bring in what one hopes for, one has to hustle here as well.
— We don't mind! Come on, Viktor, announce it already! — voices rang out from a dense, motley crowd that seemed to be materializing out of thin air.
Teenagers laughed and took selfies. Mothers strolled decorously with strollers ahead of them. On the ground sat a ginger cat with a brazen look, wearing an orange boater hat. Beside it — without any conflict at all — sat a Pekingese of distinctly scholarly appearance, dressed like an Ivy League graduate and wearing round glasses.
There was everyone imaginable here. And most importantly, two new participants quietly screwed themselves into the crowd: Denzel and SeaAsia, attentively listening to the master of ceremonies. Tarantella droned on in his muffled, colorless voice:
— So. Basically. We're about to have a competition for the fastest ramen eating. I'll start the timer, and you can begin. There's the table, by the way.
He pointed to an enormous antique piece of furniture, likely dragged out of some old tavern. Rows of rattan chairs — wildly mismatched — were shoved up to it. The tabletop itself was piled nearly to the brim with packages of the aforementioned rare culinary delicacy.
SeaAsia felt inspired.
— I'm in! — she declared, slipping her hand into her pocket, where her small collection lay: antacid tablets and digestion boosters. — This is my chance.
— Your chance for what exactly? — Pixie asked, now playing curling on a pirate schooner. — To destroy your stomach for the sake of performance? Approved. Do it. Become part of the legend!
— It's my chance to overcome my shyness! — she smiled, then muttered, — and the pills… they're like cheat codes. They'll help a bit.
No one else volunteered to participate, so the girl became both the first and the last contestant, stepping up to the host and standing beside him. He leaned in and whispered:
— There's a complication: the food must be eaten raw. Uncooked. Are you absolutely sure you're ready?
Turning slightly pale, the girl gathered her strength and proudly lifted her chin:
— Yes. And yes again!
The crowd whooped in approval, many shouting:
— Hooray! Glory to the future champion!
Given that she was the only participant, losing indeed seemed like a rather difficult prospect.
— What will it be like… that future? — the contestant whispered, shuddering. Something gnawed at her from within. A certain unnaturalness in what was happening. As if an entire pack of starving illusions had been unleashed upon her.
Her personal crisis and doubts plagued her right up until the moment Viktor's whistle sounded, announcing the start. A brick of noodles, generously coated in seasoning, landed in her mouth. As a drink, she was offered a goblet adorned with engravings and diamonds — fit for royalty — filled with cherry juice. The combination of food and drink seemed impossible, until the dry mess finally slid down her throat.
One piece. Then a second. On the third, the process stalled.
— The clock is ticking, — Tarantella reminded her. — And a personal request from me: please finish this as quickly as possible. Because now my balaclava has been joined by this hat, and I can feel my skin starting to steam, and myself edging toward fainting from suffocation. So please don't drag it out, I beg you!
An argument flared up in the crowd. Most people raised their fists, shouted chants, and accompanied every swallowed portion of the meal with a collective gasp. Exhausted by the bland, joyless food, SeaAsia spotted YourMom, who stubbornly refused to part with her vintage camera. She was explaining something to Denzel:
— What's the point of it to you? It doesn't even work!
— May I try? — the young man asked, and she reluctantly handed over her beloved object. Denzel aimed the lens at the contestant and tried to take a shot, until—
— Unfortunately, you're right. It really is broken. Then we'll have to rely solely on memory. And sometimes memory is far better than any mechanism, because I'll remember this moment forever.