The last table I sat on the last night of hell this year (hopefully) was the 3 people I live with. I brought them to the back corner of the volcano room, way back behind the raw bar. And then I punched out and smoked a cigarette outside. Big George was freestyling to the people in the front and I could hear them roaring at him. In my mind, I pictured eating Hell Pasta rapidly bite after bite until the bowl was empty.
In the movie I watched today called ‘Hero’ on the mini-dvd in Carlos’ PSP there were these Shaolin Chinese who fought entirely with & and in their minds. Exhaling smoke from my lungs was exercise for the Hell Pasta approach. Muscle relaxation from peace of mind and let the hurt follow. ‘Helter Skelter’ played back inside the restaurant, someone had turned up the radio. I brought the Hell Pastas and 2 Tecate beers over to my friends table in the volcano room and sat staring at the pasta from hell.
Rapidly I picked up a fork and began to shovel the pasta into my mouth unchewing just swallowing and trying not to let the Fatalii Scotch bonnet & african Shaolin bonnet peppers touch my lips. For the first few seconds I felt nothing serious, and then the chemicals from the mighty pepper plant organs hit the muscles in my digestive tract stunning them. Unable to function I took a pause on the shoveling and was overwelmed with pain.
The heat froze all my muscles and arteries and especially scorched my digestive and cardiovascular, as well as auto-motive systems, and totally took out several layers of lining from my stomach. I began to sweat profusely, and dabbed at myself with the white napkin. The thought of returning to the beginning of the pain, though I’d only gone one or two minutes forward, was unbearable, and I pushed the bowl away.
The couple a table over saw me shifting uncomfortably in my seat, my tight grimace, and of course the bowl of Hell Pasta in front of me. Cornbread was put into my blurry vision and I grabbed and ate pieces of it. Dessert arrived and I took down a couple bites of mango icecream. With some body control returning though in pain like an animal wounded in a trap-escape, I got up and ran to Chef EZ in the kitchen. “You fucking crazy asshole! You tried to kill me!” EZ was also in pain, what with the african shaolin scotch bonnet pepper juices marinating his skin and penetrating his pores for three days, but he managed a smile and happily explained that my bowl had been a mild one. Ten minutes later, after I puked up the whole thing, the ice cream forming a dome on top like whipped cream on a sundae, I went back and told EZ that I’d puked it all up. That closed the matter.