Wings of Death-Wing #3-Wings of Hell Fire

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
The only question is, will Eric Jeffrey's come out of this wing eating challenge with his sanity intact?

Submitted: January 10, 2014

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Submitted: January 10, 2014

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Wings of Flame-Wing #3
 
"Oooo, boy, your mouth is going to be hot! You're gonna be hot! Hot-hot!”
Eric Jeffreys knows that it is best to ignore the man that has challenged him to try the third hottest wing in the Burmese restaurant. Eric's mouth still burns from the last plate of hot wings he ate, and those had been the hottest wings that he had ever had. But now the liability papers were signed and the plate was being prepared in the kitchen. Eric's heart is beating fast.
"All right Eric," his friend Bradley says from across the table. "I hope you're ready."  
Eric does his best to look composed, taking deep breaths, and drinking large gulps of beer between.
"Another refill," Eric demands, putting up his hand. "My mouth is still messed up from that those last wings. I want some special treatment."
The Burmese employees are playing instruments now, jumping around and performing what looks like a ritualistic dance. They have formed a small circle in the space between the tables and front counter, some slapping hand held drums with open palms, some shaking maracas. Their eyes are closed, including the eyes of Eric and Bradley's waitress. With heads cocked upward, and feet moving rhymthically as the circle rotates, they chant.
"Oh, booooy," Bradley suddenly squeals, and bites down on a closed fist. "It's going to be intense! It's going to be—"
"Shut the hell up," Eric shouts. "Stop doing that!"
"Sorry," Bradley says, putting up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry."
The employees--seven of them in all--continue to hum and dance in their khaki pants and black polo shirts.
 
"Humm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah!" 
"You going to die tonight," the man at the table across from them shouts. He cackles, and rocks back in his booth, kicking his legs and drumming his fists wildly on his table. Suddenly his family—his wife, little boy, and daughter—is laughing with him. But they're all pointing at Eric, as if he were the world's funniest joke.
"Dammit," Eric says, looking nervously toward the kitchen. "I don't know if I want to do this anymore."
 
"Hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah!" "Don't worry about it," Bradley says, eating one of his infinitely milder wings. "You'll get by this like it's nothing and they'll put your picture up on the wall to be here for a lifetime."
Eric looks around at the plain tan walls of the establishment. He sees no pictures. "What the hell are you talking about," he says. "I don't see anything, Bradley." Bradley chuckles, only looking down at his chicken wing as he continues to eat. "That's because everyone who's tried it either ended up seriously injured and thrown in jail or not seriously injured and thrown in jail anyway."
"But no one's ever finished, huh?"
"Yep."
 
"Hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah!"
 
The group of employees finally breaks up and Eric and Bradley's waitress runs back to the kitchen. Her black sneakers make slapping sounds against the floor. Then a smell, like chemically enhanced peppers hits the air.
"Ah Jesus!" Bradley screams, and puts his head down on the table. "My eyes, Eric! My freaking eyes!"
Eric resists the urge to do as his friend though, despite the fact that Mr. Red Hat and his whole family also have their heads down. His eyes are burning and his vision is starting to blur. Eric could now see all the employees putting goggles on, some looking in Eric's direction with concern. The Wings of Hell Fire appear from behind the counter, held by the gloved hand of their dark haired, female waitress. She is wearing goggles like the others.
"Here you are Eric Jeffreys," the waitress says, and puts the plate down before him. Then she bows, turns and runs five steps toward the front counter. Eric can't help but to follow her progress, his eyes fearful and wide. Bradley forces his head up off the table, his eyes streaming.
"Jesus Christ dude," Bradley shouts, pointing an unsteady finger at Eric. "I think a blood vessel in your left eye burst. It's all red! Can you see me Eric? Can you--"
"Shut it Bradley! Just shut it!" The five wings beneath Jeffrey's nose are sizzling. One is turning black in front of him, as if it is burning itself. "What the...what the hell?"
"Eat the wings!" Bradley demands, looking as if he had just stepped out of the saddest experience of his life. The tears still roll steadily down his cheeks and Eric knows he must look just like him. The employees start to chant again, this time without the dance.
 
"Hummm mah! Humm mah! Humm mah! Hummm mah!"
 
Eric lets out a choked sob, grabs the first drumstick and takes a bite. His back tooth falls out his mouth at once, burned clean away from the gum. The pain is dizzying. The left corner of his lip splits open. "God help me!" he bellows and engulfs the rest of the wing. It feels as if someone has taken a sander and is using it to give the inside of Eric's throat a rub down. He coughs, gags, lets out another choked sob. He closes his eyes tightly, tears running down his brown cheeks, forces himself to take a deep breath and picks up another wing. He downs them just the same, one by one by one. Blood flows in gushes from his mouth, his tongue is a violent red. Hot wing sauce splashes up into his nose and scorches all the nose hairs; tendrils of smoke drift out of his nostrils. Every part of his face all the way up to his ears and the top of his head seems to burn. The need to run to the bathoom and take a long, painful number two hits him like an earthquake. He wants to faint, he wants to sprawl out of the tiled floor beneath him and die like an emaciated man in the desert.
"DONE!" Eric bellows, and slams his fist down on the table, shaking the plate and the bottles of beer. "DONE". He coughs and blood splashes onto the table. Bradley grabs a bunch of napkins from the napkin holder and shoves them in Eric's direction. "Damn man, use these. You're bleeding like a faucet."
Snot and blood run down Eric's face. His mouth and throat is a habitat of fire. He chugs a beer as the employees in the restaurant celebrate, and start up the chant again.
 
"Hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah, hummm mah!"
 
"More beer," Bradley demands. "Bring this man more beer!" He claps Eric on the shoulder. "Well, looks like you're not going to jail brother. Ha haaa!"  
Eric finishes the beer sitting in front of him. He is getting very tipsy. His vision is still blurry and his face is a bleeding mess. He has yet to use the napkins that Bradley has offered. But the dark-haired waitress, Burmese like much of the staff, approaches the table and places another beer on the table.  She picks up the napkins and tends to Eric's face herself. "You are a very strong man," she says, smiling at him. Eric thinks she is pretty, but he is in too much pain to care. She stops wiping for a moment so he can drink more beer, then starts up again.
"Damn," Bradley says, exhilirated. "The only way you're getting someone to go past the third wing is to pay them."
The girl chuckles. "Well, one hundred thousand is what we offer." She says it casually as if talking about the weather.
"Kidding right," Bradley says, smiling, his hands behind his head.
The waitress shakes her head. "No. You receive one hundred thousand dollars in cash, to be paid in full immediately after consumption."
Eric coughs as the waitress wipes and a glob of blood soaks through the napkin.
"So," Bradley goes on. "Does--"
Eric shoves the waitress to the side suddenly, dashes from the booth towards the entrance and takes an abrupt left towards the restroom before reaching the door. It's diarrea with a vengeance.
"So what are the wings called," Bradley asks, while Eric uses the restroom.
"The Wings of Coma," the waitress says. Bradley looks at her for a moment, only nodding.
"Okay," he finally says. He scratches at his cheek. "Wow, one hundred thousand dollars. That's a lot of money.  t's all true. We have you sign a contract and everything. You can even bring a lawyer in to look over everything if that pleases you."
"The Wings of Coma," Bradley says meditatively. "The Wings of Coma." He's tasting the words, trying to get a sense of their power. He grabs his beer. "Well maybe next t--" 
"No!" The waitress and Bradley look toward the voice. It is Eric, striding back to the table with a bloody white shirt collar, a singed nose and mouth, but a clean face. He returns to the table, his face no longer sweating, his composure intact. His expression is a grim one, as if knowing what he is about to do will not go well. "Bring me the Wings of Coma," Eric says, looking at the waitress. He looks at his friend, takes in his terrified expression, and repeats, "bring me the Wings of Coma."
Everyone in the establishment is near enough to hear. But no one believes.


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