"Excuse me, sir," said the manager, putting his hand on my arm and drawing me aside, "I wonder if I could have a word." The others didn't seem to notice; Dmitri was handing over his dad's credit card and looked as if he was trying not to throw up, and the girls were commiserating as they gathered their belongings. The manager, however, was looking shifty. "Congratulations on your win; we've never in ten years of running this contest even come close to someone finishing the enitre menu. As such, we've never had to pay out before, and I was wondering... how much are you planning on eating here?"
"I don't know," I said, smiling and rubbing my belly. "The food is all so excellent, and now I know that, I'll probably want to come back a whole lot. Maybe every day."
"I was afraid of that. Look, this was meant to be a promotional campaign, and I think we should make the best of it. I have a proposal for you. Word's going to get around about this contest, and seeing you eat tonight I'm guessing you're a growing boy. This," he pointed to my distended abdomen, "could become the most-watched space in competitive eating. What would you say to renting it out?"
"I'm not following," I said, confused.
"See, I have a friend or two in food advertising, and I bet they'd pay a pretty penny to have you wear their t-shirts. You know, Hard Rock Café, Pepsi, Heinz Tomato Ketchup – we could split the revenue, say, eighty-twenty?"
Looking down at my own grease-stained, now rather small-looking plain tshirt. "I don't know..."
"Okay, seventy-thirty," he said, and then added, winking, "rising to sixty-forty when you hit extra large."
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