This Man Can Eat The Hottest Sauce At Willy’s Extreme Wing Tavern Off Of I-75 On Exit 97
By Brendan Dewley
Hey, you. Try to imagine for a moment guzzling down two dozen bone-in wings in just thirty-six minutes. Now, imagine that every one of those twenty-four wings was covered tip to tip in Willy’s Extreme Wing mango habanero, which is obviously categorized under the second-highest sauce level at Willy’s Extreme Wing Tavern, just under “EXTREME EXTREME,” but above “MEDIUM EXTREME” and “MILD EXTREME.” You probably think it’s easy, right?
Well, you tragic fool, now try to imagine a sauce nearly twice as hot on the saucy, spicy Scoville scale as Willy’s mango habanero. Can you? Or are you too full of indigestion capsules and warm bile after even attempting to conjure the mental image of a sauce with such a kick to it?
You can't imagine this, can you? No. Because you don't have the balls. You'd rather go h
ome and chew your soft white bread, and kiss your wife, and hug your children, like a eunuch. Well, before you scramble off with your dick between your legs like a pup begging for scraps on the side of the road, try to stay with me for a moment.
Here comes Hank Davison. He’s a local plumber for Hood and Son’s Plumbing just up the highway off of Exit 74 (the one just after that rest area where the shitters are always clogged) and his throat, mouth, and nasal cavities are virtually immune to the hottest sauce that Willy’s Extreme Wing Tavern has been able to come up with to date.
The forbidden sauce, Willy’s Extreme Flamin’ Ghost Pepper Fire Sauce, has been said to be able to kill a house dog in just 3-5 minutes after consuming 2 ounces off of a linoleum floor.
Hank could fuck your wife to genuine completion after eating two styrafoam boxes of these wings and you can’t even do it with a full night’s sleep and a couple’s therapist.
Hank believes that his “massive plumber’s cock” and “gas station cigars” that he smokes after work are to thank for his miracle immunity to Willy’s hottest sauce known to date. He eats the wings in a matter of seconds, barely allowing the sauce to pass over his palette before he consumes the next. Imagine having that level of testosterone flowing through you, you sad sack of shit. You’re a poor excuse for breath, let alone a man, and Hank will tear through wings faster than you could take out your velcro wallet and ask the server politely for a nice salad.