For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.
"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.
I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.
Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.
Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.
Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.
He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.
"You win!" he chirped.
They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.
