Free The Core of the Sun by Johanna Sinisalo

could get Padrón chilis in a lot of grocery stores back then. They were imported from Spain. They were in demand for masco stag parties, things like that.
    The masco closes his eyes as if remembering some important turning point in his life.
    Masco: The truth dawned on me when I’d been doing chili for a couple of years, with different chili products. I was participating in another one of these games of Spanish roulette, and every single one of the padróns I ate was really mild. They just tasted like salt and sweet peppers. At first I thought it was just luck, that the real firebombs just happened to always go to the other guys. Then I started to think it was actually bad luck—after all, it was exciting to get a really strong chili in your mouth; it was an intoxicating experience. I started to envy my friends with their faces all red, gasping for air and trying to cool their mouths off with ice water. I went out and bought a whole bag of padróns as a test and roasted and salted them just for myself. I ate them all. Not one of them tasted hot. One chili, maybe two at the most, gave me a tiny little burning feeling, just a pale shadow of what I’d felt before. I started to suspect that the stuff that was coming into the country was milder than normal for some reason. About a month went by and I kept playing roulette off and on, and every time I would get just mild chilis. I bought another bag. Same result, except this time not one of them had any bite at all. The next roulette night I went to I watched my friends. When one of them took a bite out of a chili and started to cough and pant and grimace, I grabbed the other half of it, acting like it was a joke, and tossed it in my mouth. I chewed it up and waited for the heat to spread over my tongue and palate. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was just a pepper.
    The masco looks directly into the camera.
    Masco: It was clear to me now. I was building up a tolerance for capsaicin. Back then I didn’t even know the name of the substance, but I do now. There’s a lot of things I wish I’d known then, before I started experimenting—like the fact that it’s a nerve toxin. A toxin that demands higher and higher doses.
    He glances around, as if looking for reinforcement.
    Masco: I started to look for different kinds of chilis at the store, the hottest ones I could find. Fresh, canned, dried, processed into hot sauce. I’d had no idea how much of the vile stuff there was available. I tried all of them: put chili in my food, mixed different kinds of chilis. I put fresh bird’s-eye chilis in my soup and topped it off with a dash of Tabasco . . .
    A figure in a Health Authority uniform comes into the frame, touches the masco’s shoulder. The person’s head is outside the shot, but I can hear his voice saying, “Let’s leave out any too specific details.” The masco nods, looking frightened, and the official steps out of the picture.
    Masco: All the while I thought that it was just a game. I was just like a kid, testing my limits, looking for excitement, for extreme experiences. Nothing could happen to me. I was young and healthy; I thought I could control myself. But the poison had gotten into my blood and cut a swath through me. It was like having a demon inside me, whispering, More, I have to get more capsaicin, stronger and stronger doses . I just had to think about chilis and my mouth would water and my whole body would be screaming for that flood of fire on my tongue.
    From off camera I hear, “Side effects.” The masco nods, takes a moment to focus.
    Masco: We’d studied the effects of alcohol in school. I knew that one of the nastiest side effects of alcohol poisoning—if the poisoning wasn’t so bad that it killed you—was what was called a hangover. When you use alcohol there’s an inevitable aftereffect where you have a terrible headache, fatigue, shaking, nausea. If what