I’ve found myself in a remote mountain town in the White Mountains of Northern Arizona. I’ll be here for almost 2 weeks working on a project for Family Dollar.
Anyway, I decided to get here a couple days early to check out the town. Today is Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday, in fact. After a bit of research I discover there’s a good looking bar in town to watch the game. I always love meeting locals, and checking out the scenery.
I arrived to the bar 2 hours early, because quite honestly, I ran out of things to do and was bored. So, I left Onyx in the van nearby and grabbed a seat at the bar. It was already crowded. P!NK is singing the National Anthem. Wait. What? Oh, yeah….my brain is still in Eastern Standard Time. Looks like I showed up right on time. Totally planned it that way….
I have a couple of pints, and am starting to think about food. Don, the drunk plumbing supply salesperson to my right recommends the wings. “They’re out of this world, Johnny. And, I know that for a fact because I’m from Pittsburgh”. What the fuck does that even mean??
With 3 minutes left in the 2nd quarter, I ask the bartender to put in an order of wings. She seems uncertain of this request. Anna the bartender has the face of seasoned bar veteran. If her fake-smile wrinkles could talk, I’d bet they’d speak a litany of ubiquitous bar stories.
Anna: “I’m sorry, hon. We’ll have to wait until after halftime. We’re doing a hot-wing challenge starting as soon as Justin Timberlake starts singing. Most wings eaten during his performance wins $200!”
Hmmmm….this could be worth getting up to watch. Besides, I’ve gotta pee anyway. There are only 5 contestants seated at table in the back bar with a crowd surrounding them. I learn that each brave participant will receive a plate of 5 wings to start. 3 of them are insanely hot using ghost peppers, and other chef secrets. In proper Russian Roulette style, 2 of the wings are something else….something much more evil. I think to myself, more evil than ghost pepper???
The contest begins, and I notice all 5 contestants eating relatively slowly. I would think the proper technique would be to just go crazy and devour these things. But, I guess not. Before the FIRST wing is consumed, the only female contestant bows out, rushing off stage to chug milk. She is crying. The largest contestant is seated at the head of the table. He appears to be Indian and his physique suggests he clearly hits the weights. His bald head is beginning to bead up, and his eyes look like he just watched Will Smith see his dog die in “I Am Legend”. All contestants are wearing rubber gloves. I don’t know if that’s a memorable thing to read, but...well….they are.
Contestants #2 and #3 throw in the towel after the 4th wing, leaving Indian Hulk and elderly Jimmy Buffet. Justin Timberlake is about to finish his performance, and these guys are on their second plate (of 5 wings). On wing #7, Indian Hulk gives up, and elderly Jimmy Buffet wins! Great job! That was amazing halftime entertainment!
And, here is where my story begins.
I feel this may work better by breaking it down into real time happenings:
6:47pm: I go back to my seat at the bar. The barback (named AJ) walks up to me and asks if I wanted to try one of the “secret wings”. “Let’s fuckin’ do it!!”, says AJ. His Dallas Cowboys Jason Witten jersey engulfs his 140 pound frame. “Only if you explain WHY you’re wearing a Cowboys jersey during this Super Bowl”, I retort. “GO COWBOYS!!! I hear him scream as he skips back to the kitchen. He returns with (2) drummies. We “cheers” the drummy, and scarf them down like animals. One thing I noticed before my unwarranted hubris kicked in, is this drummy is not drizzled in wing sauce. No, this is an actual paste. A thick, red, paste complete with many questionable seeds.
6:51pm: The pain begins. It is instant, and it is relentless. I’m short of breath. I have no control of the liquid in my eyes. My throat feels like I swallowed a brick. My hands are shaking. I can’t speak words. A pretty girl sits down at the seat next to me. We make eye contact. She immediately walks away. The bartender is nowhere to be seen. AJ has run back to the kitchen. People are beginning to stare as I’m open-handedly slapping the bartop, because I have no water. No beer. No milk.
6:55pm: This wait for liquid is too much. I run to the bathroom. There is one sink. Another dude is washing his hands. I literally push him aside, and start scooping up the faucet flow of water into my hell-fire mouth-hole. “Tried the wings, huh?”, the dude asks. I still can’t muster words, just some sort of drooling up and down motion with my head.
6:59pm: Back to the bar. The world is my enemy. Anna tells me she put in my wing order (you remember, the wings I wanted BEFORE I lived in a time where every heartbeat is pain). I somehow slur, “CANCEL ORDER”. Too late, she said. At this point, I haven’t eaten in about 9 hours. There is nothing in my stomach aside from fiery chicken meats.
7:04pm: Water arrives. A third beer arrives. Another bartender asks if I wanted milk. “YES, YOU FUCK. GIVE ME MILK”. Mind you, I’m a really nice guy. For these words to leave my lava pit of a mouth, I hope you understand where I was coming from.
7:09pm: Wings and fries arrive. My water is replenished. My beer remains untouched. The painful chicken reaches my gut. This is where things get much, much worse. I begin to have cramps. Ladies, I can’t begin to understand what it’s like to be you during those times of the month, but this feeling should never happen to anyone.
7:14pm: Don: “I did that challenge last year. I didn’t make it past one wing.” Fuck you, Don. I need air. I walk outside. It’s 37 degrees out, and I’m sweating like Hillary Clinton during a lie detector test. I no longer have control over my body. I collapse down right next to the building. It is decorated with fist sized, smooth rocks. These rocks are cold. I’m putting them on my face. I’m licking them. Seriously...licking the rocks. I begin dry-heaving. Like I said, I have absolutely no control of my body. A few minutes of dry heaves, and nothing happens. I start to regain control again. My stomach is alien to me at this point. I’ve never felt anything like this. I begin to wonder what was on the liability release form that those contestants signed.
7:27pm: I walk back to my stool. THERE’S STILL NO GODDAMN MILK. I remind the other bartender, and also ask for a box. Fuck, here comes the heaves again. I rush outside. I make it a little farther near a pretty bush. I’m lying in the fetal position. I’ve found myself behind another restaurant next to my bar. A dude is taking out the trash. He is on his phone while I’m heaving heavily, alternating positions in the rock garden. This is how I die, I think. There is a fence behind me. I’ve been hearing some sort of wild animal for the past 5 minutes. Whatever, this might as well happen.
7:42pm: I can’t release this pain from my belly. I’m still heaving, and at this point almost hyperventilating. A police car shows up. Grey Ford Explorer, lights on. The young officer gets out, and immediately says “get up, boy”. At this point, I HAD to have looked like some drunk fuck. But, I’ve had exactly 2 beers over the past few hours.
Me: “I had the wing”. “I HAD THE WING”.
Officer: “You got some sort of speech impediment, boy?”
Me: “I HAD A WING”.
I just didn’t know what to say. My brain has been turned off for almost an hour now. I am in desperate, stay-alive mode.
The officer picks me up (rather gently, I may add) when we both hear the wild animal from the other side of the fence charging directly at us. The officer drops me, and I see him reach for his sidearm.
“Logan! No!!! We had the wing!”, my hero AJ yells as he approaches. His white Jason Witten jersey now looks like a Jackson Pollock painting from puke. His speech is not any better than mine. Fortunately, AJ knows the officer very well (small town), and somehow explained the situation despite the excess drool, and lack of motor functions. I owe AJ big time.
8:04pm: I return to my bar stool, pack up my wings and fries, and pay my tab. I am still in absolute torture. Other bartender shows up explaining they’re out of milk, but, here...here’s some cream on the rocks. WHAT??!? I hop in Vandalf (my van) and decide to try to eat a protein bar. Maybe my belly needs something else in it. I make it 2 bites before handing the rest to Onyx (my dog) and rushing to the front of the van. I am in the bar’s parking lot, and directly in front of me is HWY 260, a relatively busy road. I no longer have control of what’s happening, yet again. I spew my guts out. It burns almost worse going out as it did going in. Nine. NINE heaves of vomit. This is truly lava leaving the Mt Vesuvius of my soul. After a few minutes, I regain composure and finally find the ability to open my eyes. Mostly, because I’m hearing a weird sound next to me. What I thought was perhaps vomit dripping from Vandalf’s grill was actually ONYX LICKING UP MY LAVA. I had left the door wide open in my escape, and of course he ran out. I grabbed him and forced him to spoon with me for 60 seconds on the cold grass while I finally started to feel a bit better.
8:24pm: I drive back to my campsite. After parking, I just sat in the driver seat, windows open, enjoying the 30 degree temperatures with my mouth open. I look back into my van’s cabin, and see Onyx puking his guts out on the floor. Fuck my life.
Later, I would learn that the main ingredient in this wing is called the “Dragon’s Breath” pepper. It is 2.2 Million Scoville Units (a habenero pepper, for example, is usually about 350,000 Scoville Units). I’m writing this story the day after. I have yet to poop today. I barely slept last night dreading what’s coming. I’ll make sure to keep you all posted...
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