At a sports bar in Ohio, my friend offered me an "Atomic" chicken wing.
"You handle heat?"
A samurai does not decline a challenge on foreign soil.
"I welcome the spice," I said.
I took one bite.
My soul left my body. My eyesight blurred. My throat felt like it had been sliced with a heated blade.
I wiped my lips with a napkin, forced a calm smile, and said, "A refreshing kick."
My friend blinked. "Dude... that's Carolina Reaper. You didn't even sweat."
He called the bartender. The bartender called the cook.
"He ate the Atomic with a straight face! He’s a demon!"
The manager brought out a bright yellow t-shirt that said "ATOMIC SURVIVOR" and draped it over my shoulders.
I sat there, unable to move a single muscle, my stomach burning to ash while 50 strangers chanted my name.
I have never been prouder.
I have never needed an ambulance more.