“It’s called Brutal Death By 16 Million Pepper Daggers and it’s our least popular item.” 

“I’ve had Jack-o-Lantern Apocalypse, Red Pepper Police Pursuit, Devil Tailwhip, Gangrene Tongue, Joe’s Hot Torture, The 13 Million Firecracker, The 14 Million Firecracker, Habanera Haymaker, Tastebuddies, and Magma Bloodflow; I can handle Brutal Death.”

“Coming right up.”

Jonas wiped his mouth. The waitress stopped breathing.

“Sir, you’re not supposed to drink the whole bottle! Somebody call 911.” 

“Nobody’s calling 911!” yelled a burly Italian man covered in stolen gold watches and heavy gold rings. He grabbed Jonas by the collar, “No FDA is coming here. No ambulances is coming here,” he turned toward the waitress, “get him a glass of milk.”

Jonas’s wife frantically searched the web with her phone. First she looked up if someone can die from drinking hot sauce. Then she read an article about an aspiring chef who met an untimely demise because of a hot sauce drinking contest with his friend. Then she looked up if it’s illegal for a restaurant to refuse to bring in medical attention for a diner in danger. Then she looked up who actually regulates restaurants. It is the FDA. 

The waitress returned, glass of milk in hand, and Jonas looked like he was working up the courage to call a long lost lover who used to routinely abuse him. Millions of neurotoxins were attacking his constricted tongue and feeding him hallucinations. 

He opened his mouth to ask for help but instead incinerated the waitress with a stream of fire. Patrons screamed, shoved, and raced towards the exits. Jonas glanced at his wife and incinerated her. She was looking up other restaurants in the area.

The owner managed to escape along with the hostess. She called 911. The burning restaurant  was mesmerizing. It attracted dozens of onlookers. The owner noted how much more business they would’ve done if he had lit the building on fire sooner.   

“What seems to be the problem?” Huh. This startled the owner out of his fantasy planning.
“The problem? The building’s on fire you moron.”
“Old firefighter’s joke. We’re on it.” The firefighter summoned his team, and they ran into the building. 

Jonas, roaming around unscarred like the mother of dragons, signed a receipt using the name of his third grade history teacher. He walked into the kitchen and dumped his head in the sink. He lit the water ablaze. 

The firefighters were clueless. The fire was too spicy. Water wasn’t doing anything. They retreated back into the parking lot for a quick meeting. They called their chief. Their chief gave them an idea. 

“Do they still exist?”
“Sure they do. I’ll send one over right away.” 

A white truck arrived looking like an ice cream truck minus the addictive jingle and candy-colored signs. A totally plain ice cream truck. Out walked a man wearing all white. He adjusted his white cap, donning a dutiful expression. He raced to the back of his truck to grab a hose. He opened the hose and milk gushed out. As the Scoville fires cleared, the onlookers cheered. Jonas was found lying against the wall of the kitchen, head bobbing around in circles, drooling. 

The owner was fuming. A man tapped him on the shoulder. His khakis and Clarks screamed FDA. He wrote something on a piece of ticket paper, ripped it off, and handed it to the owner. 

“So this is it for Gino’s Spicy Shack?”
“No. You need to get a fire extinguisher.” The FDA agent adjused his glasses, returned to his vehicle, and drove away from the smolder. 

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