Dylan was born with taste buds whiter than the special varnish on a liberal MP’s desk. Despite the caucasian curse of chilli intolerance, he persevered and the boy that had to go to the school nurse after sucking on a hot Warhead was now a self-professed heat-lord.
Naturally, his bogan nuances soon took over and the pursuit of an enjoyable heat was replaced by a competitive yearning to prove himself. Indulging in meals far above his Scoville paygrade became part of his personality.
His housemates always enjoyed the Saturday morning groans of a man with a ring so scorched you would think Frodo & Golem had been fighting over it in his crack of doom. He never learned his lesson though, even during those moments where he contemplated inserting a sour creamed finger of soothing relief.
You don’t just spraypaint the ceramic brown for a decade without developing an insufferable attitude towards hot sauce either. Visiting Dylan’s house would always involve an unnecessarily long presentation about the new hot sauces he picked up that are guaranteed to strip layers of stomach lining.
Then you have to visit his crop. He’s currently growing Carolina Reapers, Trinidad Scorpions, Orange 7s, Butch Ts and any other fruit that sounds like it could be a low-level biker gang in a Sons of Anarchy spin-off. His plan, of course, is to turn them into sauces that will completely destroy the flavour of any food he puts them on.
Or if you’re lucky enough for Dylan to visit your house you had better prepare yourself for an extreme amount of judgment over having a bottle of normal Tabasco or Franks Red Hot. You aren’t even a man in his eyes. In fact, you are doing more to embarrass white culture than a country music festival. You piece of shit.
Today, the chilli community of Perth will be blessed with his presence. He will be attending the Chilli Festival and showing everyone a thing or two about taste testing hot sauces. However, his ultimate goal is to take out the hot wing competition. Clear the way, the champ is here.
Typically, hubris takes over and he goes far too hard on the tastings. Smearing garish quantities on the bread cubes and loudly telling the vendors that their sauces ain’t shit to a man like him. He’s high on capsaicin and his own erroneous confidence as to his true tolerance.
It’s not long until he rolls the dice with the wrong pain merchant. A look of terror comes over his face as he instantly realises that the roaring inferno building up in his mouth isn’t going to slow down. He is sweating profusely, eyes are watering and he’s entered descending fast through Dante’s levels of chilli hell. Why did he smear so much on?
He then decides to drain the lizard before the wing competition but has badly misjudged the safety of his own hands. His old feller is now burning like he’d gone raw in a backpacker dorm romp. Needless to say, Dylan is in a fair bit of trouble now.
Each bite of juicy chicken creates a prison riot inside his mouth. He is reaching intolerable levels of pain and has to concede before finishing a single wing. He’s far more focused on getting to a spew point and for some involuntary dragon breath.
Some cold beer helps numb the pain but his concern now is whether his forceful heaves will blow the back welds off too. After all, when it comes to chilli induced sharting, this ain’t his first rodeo.