Two men daring death and damnation by digesting all the hottest wings on a city street (Part 1). After eating something that should have been on CSI (Part 2), they discover The Worst Wings In The World (Part 3) -- and keep going.
Puck'N Wings
Location: Puck'N Wings has over fifty flavors of wing, not one of which could distract us from the exploding knife factories installed underneath our lungs. Roiling, ugly infernos shoving red hot shards out into our other organs -- they'd become bored with the stomach (which now felt like the third floor of Nakatomi Plaza), and decided to be the first chicken wings to be tasted in the spleen.
Eventually we concluded we had discovered the combination of chemicals which gives the taste of being stabbed. We don't expect to make much money from it.
Wingtensity: We informed the staff of our mission and were served a bowl of "Puck'N INSANE" -- which is actually one step ABOVE "Suicide" in the Puck'N Pantheon. The menu describes it as being "slammed into a wall by an armored hockey player," IN BOLD RED TEXT.
They were gorgeous -- sour, salty, spicy, stuffed with flavor and flaming with "fighting spirit" (Wallybob's description of the fact that they could strip paint off your nostrils from a foot away). This didn't cancel the fact that every wing was harder than Tony Jaa's knuckles -- each chunk scorched our insides as it slid past patches of throat that had already been burned away, dumping gallons of flavorful napalm into the volcanoes improbably installed in our intestines.
But we'd made it. It was over. After hours of pain and struggle, we were done.
WHAT?
We'd risked it all and won, we'd faced five levels of pain in a row and defeated the final boss. Which is why, in true videogame fashion, that's when the REAL final boss was revealed -- and us without a save point, and down to our last two stomachs.
The Real Final Challenge: Duff's
Puck'N's manager had been alerted to our quest, and interrupted our celebratory high-fives to tell us we hadn't tried the hottest wings yet, even though we'd never done anything to him. We would have to go to "Duff's" to face the true challenge. We were dying, felt like we'd jumped on a grenade in Dune's Spice War, and had never been more relieved than one minute previously when we'd thought we were done.
And if you think we didn't go, you forgot what gender we are.
Location:
After a long walk (as good an idea for our stomachs as a minefield is for a football game), we approached Duff's, aka "The Final Boss For Stomachs." Imagine horror movies were instead based on spicy food -- our approach was the first half hour of every one put together. The instant we entered we saw this:
It's not clear if that's how many wings they ate, or how many people they killed when they exploded. The menu doesn't just include hot items -- it's only hot items, rated in Scovilles (an actual scientific measure of hotness).
You'll notice they don't even have a wimpy "Suicide" - instead it's "KILLING EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD." It's rated at 850,000 Scovilles, which is as hot as something can be before it's legally termed as Mace. Even the staff are clearly labelled to warn you against doing exactly what we had to.
Wingtensity:
These wings don't have wingtensity, they ARE wingtensity - in the same way Rocky is the Eye of the Tiger and that is no moon (especially the bit where it detonates in a massive fireball).
They're incredible. It's like the surface of the sun was turned into a flavor, and it's a really good one - an incredibly intense spice without a single speck of synthetic, so strong it can set off survival endorphins in the eater. You inexplicably want more the instant you finish one, like ordering another mug of magma because the first one didn't kill you. It's also the first place you actually need the entire stack of napkins every wing joint serves you - not just for your fingers, but to wipe away the fluids which start leaking from every orifice, as well as desperately scrubbing sauce away from any exposed skin it drops onto.
Our quest was complete - we'd moved past pure heat and into an almost religious dizziness of suicide sauce. We felt terrific, though only because "terrific" used to mean "inspires terror." Because we'd only got halfway through the "pass all these wings through our bodies" process.
Please continue to Part 5: The Aftermath!
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