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Thirty-Eight
DEVIN
Hayden’s eyes were bloodshot already, and that wasn’t a good sign. He’d full-blown retched three times now, not counting the dry-heaving between each bite.
Thankfully, most of his plate was gone. He’d downed a full third of the Kalles Kaviar; a delicacy in the form of a tube of fish paste that I couldn’t imagine anyone putting onanything. He’d also finished his share of the ridiculously powerful-smelling Lutfisk, and managed to polish off two of the fish-balls in curry sauce.
“I’m done,” he gasped apologetically. “I just can’t possibly—”
“Then step back,” ordered Brooke, throwing down another piece of the jellied whitefish. “And get out of our way.”
I caught her eye and nodded admiringly as I kept on chewing. When it came to the eating challenge, our new partner was definitely pulling her weight. We were almost done with what we had left, where other teams were still having trouble getting stuff down.
“Look at the Ice Cousins,” Reese sniffed, wiping sauce from his mouth. “Poor bastards.”
We had a problem in that we’d drawn three dishes, instead of two. It was a huge disadvantage, especially when it came to the sheer amount of food we had to consume. Our Lutfisk was served with creamy spices and potatoes, and the potatoes tasted horrific — exactly like the rest of the dish. It had the consistency of jello and the taste of rotten fish, but every bite was like a punch to the face because the whole thing had been prepared with lye.
But the Ice Cousins… well, they’d drawn the blood soupandthe Hákarl. The latter of which I could smell from here.
“It smells like ammonia!” Hayden had complained about ten minutes ago.
“That’s because itisammonia,” Noah had cackled, wandering happily amongst us. “The Icelanders bury it in the ground and ferment it for three or four months.”
“You wouldn’t be so glib ifyouwere the one who had to eat it,” one of the Ice Cousins had snarled.
Without missing a beat Noah had plucked a cube of the fetid, fermented shark off the Ice Cousins’ plate and popped it straight into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it without wincing, without even letting up the slightest bit of his shit-eating grin.
The Ice Cousin who’d commented shook his head in disbelief. “Well… fuck.”
“God, I wish we didn’t have to censor that!” Noah had laughed loudly.
At the moment the Cousins were less than halfway done, whereas we were almost finished. We looked tied with team Think Tank, who’d been given some kind of dessert cake called Smörgåstårta. By itself the cake looked appetizing, up until you realized it was topped with liver paté, shrimp, tomato, and olives. But they were eating it quickly, and were almost done.
Still, it was the Boston Banshees who cleaned their plate before anyone else. After calling for a check and showing Noah their tongues, he declared them the winner of this latest outrageous leg.
“As winners you also get a little bit of a bonus prize!” Noah announced. “Or rather… someoneelsedoes.”
He went on to pull out a brand new dish from behind his back, covered with an ornate silver cloche. Sweeping it theatrically before the Banshees, he looked to their captain and nodded for her to do the reveal.
When she pulled the top off it everyone within ten or fifteen yards gagged, Noah included. The captain’s face contorted into something out of a slasher movie.
“What in the holy hell is—”
“Surströmming!” our host half-shouted, half-choked.
Noah took big three steps away from the plate while wiping the tears from his eyes. When he could finally speak again his voice was thick with saliva:
“Eight full ounces of fermented, tinned fish,” Noah slobbered. Baltic herring so mushy and foul, so rancid, it’s essentially a biological weapon! Once voted the foulest-smelling dish on the planet.”
“WHY?” someone on one of the other teams shouted. “Why would anyone think to—”
“And we’re going to haveeatthis?” another one of the Banshees cried in dismay.
“No,” said Noah, turning back to their captain. “Your team doesn’t have to eat a single bite. But you do have to bestow this atrocity uponanotherteam, and they’ll have to finish it before they can move on.”
I looked back at other teams — which were horror stricken — and then mine. Brooke was keeping a game face, bless her heart, but Hayden was in a pure panic. Reese however, was staring at the tin of rotten fish with all the interest of a museum exhibit.
The worst part was we were almost done! Aside from a few foul-smelling potatoes, all we had left was the Lutfisk we were still chewing on. Or rather, trying to slide down our throats without gagging.
