Ultimate Glory

When I told the cashier that my friend and I wanted the 911 challenge, she looked worried. Worried that we were just two chumps in over our heads, ready to quit after two wings. I asked her if the wings would be free, provided we both ate all 12. "You can take 'em home if you don't finish 'em" she tells us, because right now we're just skid marks to her. Rough spots in that gigantic underwear, covering the private parts of 911 challenge history. She doesn't think we'll be two more faces on the sacred wall of the Cluckyu Challenge Winners of Ultimate Glory.

Who would?

I woke up in the morning, nervous. "It's all mental," I tell myself, before I realize I'm talking to myself in the mirror. Mental. Somehow I find myself eating handfuls of M&M's in my parent's bedroom. Eating them like an Asian woman drives a car--that is to say, quickly, and without thinking. When I find Jon, he's more nervous than I am. I show him the tub of Vasoline and tell him that rubbing the stuff on the lips and cheeks will make the burning more bearable, and he sounds relieved. No one cracks the typical lubrication jokes that usually go hand-in-hand with the application of Vasoline. Shit is serious.

There's not much of a crowd at Cluckyu's during the day, so the food comes hard and fast. I don't know how food can come hard, but like hell it does. Before I know it, I have in front of me 12 of the hottest hot wings known to man, and I'm laying them all out on my tray, wings on the left, drumsticks on the right, all the while scraping off excess sauce. Seems like a waste of time to most people, but we both know it's necessary. It's gotta be done, so better do it when your mouth isn't burning. See, most people decide they'll try the challenge, and if it gets too crazy then maybe they'll stop. Most people quit.

The first three are a breeze, but after that I start to shake. I can't remember how I felt during the middle, so I can only assume I was in pain, and that my mind suppressed the memory. The last three or four just suck. By then Jon's already finished (amazingly), and I'm under pressure of running out of time. But then I stopped chewing so much, and held everything in long enough to finish! My face and fingers are numb, I'm crying, and I'm red all over. I would have looked like shit, but fortunately I was adorned with the unmistakable wings of victory.

In that restaurant, there's a wall that displays an array of polaroid pictures. Most of the people in them look like shit. Some of them still have sauce-beards. Others are holding up strange personal mementos, things that have helped them get through the tough times. But in each one is a smile. Now my mug is among these legends, smiling with the twinkle of accomplishment. A smile of a victory, hard-fought. That smile is tempered, because I know that (to put it in simple terms) passing the stool will suck.