Two men set out to eat every suicide-strength chicken wing there is -- in one night (Part 1). With the first few far from fiery (Part 2), we foolishly wished for some real pain and heat. (For accurate foreboding, please imagine we did that in front of a malicious genie. And that ominous music started playing the instant we opened our foolish, and imminently punished, mouths.)
Wing Shop 366
Location: It might look normal, but Wing Shop 366 is more impossible than a tattoo parlor in the Vatican -- it offers full seating despite lacking a liquor license, under the impression that people want to eat wings without beer.
Did you spot the deliberate mistake?
We saw how well their revolutionary "eating wings sober" strategy was working, by the bustling crowds in the dingy formican nightmare of their anti-enjoyment zone...
Less atmosphere than an asteroid robot's funeral
...and the increasingly desperate hand-written special offers plastered on every available surface.
I fully expect to see this place either close, or start scrawling graffiti in blood, within the month.
Wingtensity: Prometheus could escape his ancient chains, breaking loose from the mountain where the gods decreed an eagle should fly down and rip his liver out every day for eternity, and say that these are the worst wings he's ever experienced.
The "Devil Sauce" wings lived up to their name, and not in a good way -- they were exactly as pleasant as inviting the Lord of Flies into your mouth. Before you bite in, the chemical stench stabs into your sinuses like needles; "flavor" is an utterly inappropriate word to apply to this. It'd be like talking about the "flavor" of the Exxon Valdez ramming Three Mile Island.
These are the ultimate exemplars of horrible chemical butchery, so appallingly artificial they make the Terminator look like a free-range chicken. There are bacteria growing on the Chernobyl reactor's cracked core which would taste more natural (and likely be better for you). The cooks somehow wrapped a layer of thickened bleach around battered packing peanuts, convincing the unholy assortment to cling to burned bones. Probably by threatening to "cook" them some more.
The wingtensity pentagraph yielded shocking, yet entirely accurate, results.
We couldn't detect any actual meat, making size = value = flavor = will to live while eating = zero
St. Louis Wings
Location: We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news, as in "our stomachs are breaking." The Devil Sauce was catalyzing an unholy reaction in our digestive systems. Unsurprising, since that stuff could turn an angel's tears into unicorn poison. We soldiered on, despite gaseous rumblings exactly like steam hissing from the pipes of a plutonium power plant -- small signs, but indicative of incredibly bad times to come.
In news NOT related to imminent internal explosions, St. Louis Wings is a popular sports bar/wing franchise.
Wingtensity: We explained our mission to the barmaid and demanded she bring us her hottest wings. She looked at us like we were demented, and delivered a bowl of "Hotter than Hell."
We were delighted to see that they came with big chunky fries, because about thirty wings wasn't really bringing us close enough to exploding yet. The wings themselves were delicious, softly spicy and full of meat, but we'd probably have praised the crunchy, filling texture of granite after Satan's Wings.
Eating "actual food" helped, but it was still pouring more matter and entirely new types of spice into an increasingly unstable spice reactor that was currently:
a) hissing and bubbling like a witch's cauldron
b) inside our guts
But we were confident -- there was only one wing shop left. We'd made it this far. Everything would be fine.
Please continue to Part 4: Famous Last Words!
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