A meloncholy note rises from silence, reminiscent of the wild hot dog at dawn. Peacefully, the dancer rises from a sitting position, arms extended and both legs going up to tip toes. A pause, silence. Then, a violent lurch forward with a terrifying scream as the hot dog is cut down by a thoughtless ruffian. The hot dog (aka dancer) writhes around on the floor in torment, singing sadly (if nonverbally) of the loss of mustard.
Other dancers can come in, dressed as saurkraut and chili, as well as someone in red to act as katchup. They surround the fallen hot dog and grieve for their fallen comrade.
After five minutes of this, the hot dog dies. The condiments mime committing seppuku with plastic sporks and all lie in a pool of their own pathos until the clapping of the audience is finished. (Or until the law enforcement authorities arrive to ironically chase them off.)