A Fiery Finale

“The two of us are here, my dear guests,” Lou said, rubbing his palms together and smiling, “in case either of you would like some additional seasoning tonight. I’m pepper.” From out of nowhere, he pulled an almost foot-long fancy glass pepper grinder.

“And I’m salty.” Fence glared at Replica as he produced a similar grinder, this one containing salt.

“It was your fault.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Excuse me. I meant to say ‘salt.’”

“That sounds fantastic.” Don beamed. “I’ll take both.”

“Salt and pepper, sir?” Lou leaned in with his grinder, and Fence followed suit. “Our pleasure.”

First Fence dispensed the salt. Miraculously, he didn’t screw it up. I was thankful for that. We were one false move away from literal years of bad luck. For once Fence managed to make a completely bland job out of things: his salt-grinding technique may not have been exactly tasteful, but it got the job done.

It was only when Lou’s turn came around that things took a turn for the more flavorful — for me, that is. And if by “more flavorful” you think I’m referring to nuclear-level spice, you are absolutely, unfortunately correct.

“And now for the pepper,” Lou said. I couldn’t quite cap the pen on exactly what it was, but something about the tone in his voice was giving me the heebie-jeebies. A premonition, it turned out, of the fusion reaction about to superheat my entire head and leave me a melted puddle for the sake of a cheap laugh.

Lou tossed his pepper shaker over his shoulder. I heard the thing shatter into a million pieces behind me and, a split second later, someone yell “My eye! Jesus Christ, my eye!” No time to worry about that. Rachel would take care of it. I was more interested in what Lou had cooking.

From out of literally nowhere, Lou whipped one of those flat metal graters and a chili pepper. Nothing too great about the grater, but I could’ve sworn I’d had nightmares about that pepper. The thing was redder than a traffic light, practically glowing, its skin a rough bed of gnarly leathery bumps. It looked like hell on earth.

And it smelled even hotter. All of a sudden, the whole room was a sauna. I was sweating enough bullets to start my own damn militia.

“Is it just me” — I tugged at my stiff, blanched collar — “or is it kinda, you know, hot in here?”

Fence shrugged. “I’m fine, bro. Prolly just you,” he said, cool as an ice cube chilling in a freezer tray. It had only been like two days since we’d fixed our freezer in the kitchen, and he was already playing copycat.

Lou was similarly a-ok. And he was the one handling the hellish gourd, for god’s sake. I guessed I was the only one who couldn’t take the heat.

“Uh… what kinda pepper is that anyway?” I asked — reluctantly, cause I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know.

“Carolina reaper,” was Lou’s flat response. Flatter than the grater he was using to grind away the pepper, flake a steaming mountain onto Don’s fish dish. No — more like a volcano. The pepper was so hot its flakes were practically on fire. As soon as one hit minced fish, it started sizzling and melting. The bottom of the pile was already a lava moat of super-spiced seafood and impending mouth pain.

“Jesus, Don! A Carolina reaper? You mean the chili pepper cultivar recognized as the hottest in the world for 10 years straight, from 2013 to 2023?”

“Good one kid,” Lou said with a chuckle, continuing to grate. “Look at him. He’s a whiz. Pro mustache puller. Top tier taste tester. And practically a walking, talking Wikipedia article to top it all off.”

“Wait, what was that second thing? ‘Taste tester,’ did you say? Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to…” I eyed the increasingly pepper-covered main course, but had to look away when my eyes started watering from the heat. “Lou if this is about the mustache, I’m sor—”

“Mustache? What mustache? I’ve forgotten all about it.” Lou just cut me off. How rude. He also definitely hadn’t forgotten anything cause he was staring knives at me and making the “cutting neck” motion with one hand. With the other he was still grating. How aggravating. “Speaking of online articles, you guys know what the best thing about them is, right?”

“Anyone can write one?” I guessed. Don’s dinner was more pepper than fish by now, more seasoning than it was actual seafood.

“Nope.”

“Over half of them are now written by AI?” Replica suggested. Plumes of thick black smoke started curling off of the pommes de bathtub or whatever the stupid side dish was.

“Wrong again. But warmer.”

Fence just shrugged — he was never any good at pop quizzes — and Don smiled on, like he was too good for the rest of us or Lou’s dumb guessing game.

“The best thing about online articles,” Lou finally revealed, face alive with fire as the entrée to end all entrées — because after you ate it your tastebuds would be burned off and you’d never taste anything ever again — burst into flame, “is that they don’t have any pain receptors.”

“What?” It was the last word I managed to get out before my head lit up like a match, everything burning and mouth flooded with a plateful of flaming food. “Taste tester” my flambéed tonsils. What kind of taste tester gets pied in the face with the dish they’re supposed to be taste testing? Especially when that dish was literally on fire?! Dammit, Lou!

This meal… is HOT!!!

Well, after a few seconds, the plate slid down from where it was stuck to my sorry face, tumbling to the floor. But the flame remained where it was: engulfing my entire head like I was the world’s biggest candle. Or biggest imbecile, to have let this happen to me — either or. Hell, maybe both.

To be continued!