The Potluck of Doom

It started in the most unassuming of places: an office potluck.

Roger, the self-proclaimed “King of Culinary Adventures,” decided to make his mark with a dish that could redefine the boundaries of taste and tolerance. He called it Dr. Diablo’s Xtreme Chili, a recipe allegedly capable of “breaking the tongue barrier” and “bending light around your mouth.”

The night before, Roger labored over his creation like a mad scientist brewing a potion. By the time the chili was done, its ominous fumes shimmered with a heat so potent that Roger swore it whispered threats to him.

At the potluck, Roger unveiled his masterpiece with the theatricality of a magician revealing his final act. He set the chili down on the table, its surface glistening like molten lava. The air seemed to ripple around it, the chili’s fumes forming a mirage that warned:

Proceed at your own peril.

“Behold!” Roger declared, his voice echoing in the breakroom. “Dr. Diablo’s Xtreme Chili: the culinary equivalent of staring into the sun. Do you dare?”

Carol, the office gossip, stepped up first, determined to prove she could handle the heat. She took a bite the size of a pinhead and immediately began sweating like she’d run a marathon in a volcano.

“It’s… fine,” she croaked, before sprinting to the fridge for milk.

Jeff, whose palate was so plain he thought ketchup was exotic, sniffed the chili and immediately burst into tears.

“Why does it hurt my eyes? I didn’t even eat it!”

Roger leaned back, his arms crossed, basking in the chaos he had unleashed.

“Not everyone is cut out for greatness,” he mused.

Then came Sarah.

Sweet, brilliant, intimidatingly confident Sarah.

She approached the chili with a curiosity that bordered on reckless.

“What’s in it?” she asked.

Roger grinned, leaning into his role as a culinary overlord.

“Ground beef, beans, tomatoes, and Dr. Diablo’s patented capsaicin extract. It’s measured in scovillions—a heat unit so intense it was banned in 13 countries and has its own restraining order in New Jersey.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Scovillions? Sounds like something you made up to sound impressive. Is it FDA approved?”

Roger puffed up his chest.

“The FDA acknowledged it. Well, they sent a cease-and-desist letter, which I took as a compliment.”

Sarah smirked.

“Sounds fun.”

She grabbed a spoon and took a heaping bite.

The room collectively held its breath.

Somewhere, a copier jammed itself out of fear.

Sarah chewed.

For a moment, the breakroom was silent.

Then her face turned a shade of red usually reserved for tomatoes and emergency lights.

Her pupils dilated, and a faint, high-pitched noise escaped her throat—a sound not unlike a dolphin discovering dubstep.

Someone whispered, “She’s transcending.”

Sarah blinked rapidly.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Finally, Sarah slammed the spoon down and gasped,

“That… was delightful.”

Her voice was an octave higher than usual, like helium balloons had taken over her vocal cords.

The room erupted into nervous applause.

Carol, still guzzling milk, muttered, “She’s a psychopath.”

But Sarah wasn’t done.

She went back for another bite.

And another.

“Alright, now you’re just showing off,” Roger said, his bravado slipping.

“This isn’t a contest.”

“Oh, but it is,” Sarah replied, her eyes locking on him like a hawk sizing up a mouse.

“And you’ve already lost.”

Roger’s confidence crumbled.

“If you think you’ve mastered my chili, let’s see how you handle this.”

He pulled a small vial from his pocket, its contents glowing ominously.

“This,” he declared, “is pure capsaicin extract. One drop could incinerate a snowflake from fifty feet away. I’ve only used it diluted. Never unmixed. This is the ultimate test.”

Sarah smirked.

“Bring it.”

The room collectively gasped.

Carol whispered, “This is going to end horribly.”

Roger dipped a tiny spoon into the vial, retrieving a single, molten drop.

He extended it toward Sarah, who grabbed the spoon and, without hesitation, swallowed it.

The reaction was instantaneous.

The lights flickered.

The thermostat shot up twenty degrees.

Somewhere, a car alarm went off.

For a brief moment, Sarah’s eyes widened, and she appeared to glimpse the universe’s secrets.

Then she hiccupped.

“That was… zesty,” she said.

The room froze.

“Zesty?” Carol echoed. “She said zesty.”

Roger was aghast.

“Zesty? That’s not even in this chili’s vocabulary! What are you?!”

Defeated but desperate, Roger proposed one final challenge:

A whistle duel.

“We each take a spoonful of chili, hold it in our mouths, and see who can whistle Mary Had a Little Lamb first.”

Sarah shrugged.

“Fine. But when I win, you’re banned from bringing chili to potlucks forever.”

The contest began.

Chili went in, and chaos erupted.

Roger’s face turned beet red as he attempted the first note.

His cheeks puffed out, his eyes watered, and the only sound he managed was a faint, wet pfffft—like a dying balloon.

Sarah, meanwhile, managed a wobbly first note, followed by two more.

Roger, desperate, inhaled sharply—

And that’s when the fumes hit.

His nostrils flared, and he sneezed with the force of a cannon.

Chili mist sprayed across the room, coating everything (and everyone).

“MY EYES!” Jeff screamed, stumbling into the water cooler.

Through the chaos, Sarah calmly finished the tune and spat the chili into a napkin.

“Victory.”

Roger slumped into a chair, defeated.

“How?” he croaked.

Sarah patted him on the back.

“Breath control. Years of flute lessons.”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Carol declared, “Chili is officially banned from this office.”

As Sarah walked out, victorious, she called over her shoulder,

“Next time, Roger, maybe just bring cookies.”

Roger groaned.

“Cookies can’t kill people!”

“Exactly,” Sarah replied with a smirk.