Ever since I was a little kid, I have loved chicken wings. Hot, teriyaki, garlic parmesan, Old Bay – you name it, I will try it. A way to make a restaurant a regular place for me to frequent involves two things: reasonable beer and good wings. Call me a monster, but I will never dip a wing in ranch or bleu cheese. It’s like dipping a good steak in ketchup.
In my town, a local football hero opened a restaurant. This particular restaurant hosts a wing challenge for which the challenger must consume a wing measuring around the tune of 7.2 million on the Scoville scale. To put it into perspective, police grade pepper spray is around 1 million.
At that point in my life, I worked for a local police department. The restaurant had opened pretty recently and my chief was talking about being sprayed in the eyes with pepper spray and how awful it was. Me being Billy Badass, I called him out for being a big ol’ bitch. Not to be outdone, the chief (who is now one of my best friends and may appear in later stories), called me out on it and said he would personally pay for the challenge. I accepted.
That weekend, me, a few cops and the chief went to the restaurant. The challenge was still a novelty, and at that point, less than 10 people successfully had completed the challenge. As I walked in, a man who had just tried the challenge was crying, and our waitress informed us that someone threw up on the table from the challenge about an hour before we got there. The chief immediately pointed at me and said, “This guy wants to do the challenge.”
I had been called out.
To be honest, I was terrified. The waitress brought over the waiver for me to sign. I signed it and realized that I wasn’t strapped in on the rollercoaster but it was too late to get off. As I sat there and contemplated my existence, I watched another person try and fail miserably. To even serve the damn thing, the chef had to wear gloves. After about 20 minutes, the wing was carried out and the entire packed restaurant had gathered around my table. The wing radiated with heat and I could smell it from 15 feet away. It told me, “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
After the waitress set the wing down, I could barely breathe. The wing was massive. I can generally eat a chicken wing in two bites, so my strategy was to eat it as fast as possible. I looked up and realized people were growing impatient. The owner/football legend was standing right in front of me. I picked up the wing and brought it to my face.
I took the first bite. “Not that bad” I thought. Then it hit me. I coughed. Utter panic was on my mind. I knew I had to finish eating it. My throat swelled up. It felt like I swallowed a hot coal. I begin sweating from places I didn’t know were possible. My already giant head pulsated and swelled up.
The challenge required me to sit in place for five minutes without getting up or having anything to drink. I just put my head in my palms as I heard the owner laughing. Everyone was laughing at my pain. It was the longest five minutes of my life. It became a blur as I focused on my childhood, playing sports in the driveway. Any happiness I’d ever had.
Afterwards, I got my picture with the football owner. I gave him the middle finger and posed with him for the “Wall of Flame” as he laughed at me some more and then got an autograph. I was so swollen, my picture looks like I was stung by a nest of bees. He advised me to seek help if I have to piss to prevent touching my dick with my capsaicin hands.
Later on, we went out to the bar that night but all I could do was DD. At the pregame prior to going out, I sat on my friend’s toilet upstairs. I could hear the revelry and merrymaking through the vent as I whimpered in pain. I couldn’t drink a beer and had to be near the bathroom at all times. At a certain point, I had enough being out. All I wanted to do was be home. I gathered up my cop friends since I drove and nearly shit myself the entire way home. It was one of the most miserable days of my entire life.
Have you ever eaten 50 Tums in a day? I have. I drank an entire 12 pack of Northern Neck ginger ale. Anything that even gave me a momentary reprieve from the burning. Nothing quelled my stomach. I shit clay red colored shits for three days That night, I slept on the bathroom floor. I could feel the fire in my stomach. My O-ring was melted completely. At a certain point, I cried. Every time I shit, I just got in the shower afterwards. I writhed in pain on the floor, tossing and turning as I felt the fiery demon wing going through my digestive tract.
To this day, I still don’t think my stomach is right..
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