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Chapter 85: A Lesson in Fire
Jon's Perspective
It was one of those rare afternoons in the Dunphy household where the chaos seemed to press pause, if only temporarily. The California sun filtered lazily through the half-closed blinds, casting slatted patterns on the living room floor. Somewhere in the back, behind closed doors, the unmistakable sound of virtual warfare echoed through thin walls—Luke and Manny, ensconced in Luke's room, were battling it out in what could only be described as the auditory equivalent of a Michael Bay movie being shoved through a broken speaker. Gunshots, explosions, and high-pitched yelling tumbled out in waves.
In contrast, the living room exuded a deceptive calm. Jon lounged with practiced slouch on the couch, limbs draped in all directions like a bored cat. Alex sat perched on the armrest, remote in hand, wielding it like a disillusioned conductor as she flipped through the channels. The TV offered its usual buffet of disappointment—low-budget infomercials promising impossible results, outdated sitcom reruns that hadn't aged gracefully, and one overly enthusiastic man yelling about the life-changing power of industrial-grade blenders.
Jon watched her expression shift with every flick of the remote—each channel change like a personal offense to her intelligence. "It's like watching someone slowly lose faith in humanity," he muttered.
She didn't look away from the screen. "Welcome to daytime television."
After a particularly loud segment featuring a dancing vacuum cleaner, Jon cleared his throat. "Hey, did you pick someone yet for that essay assignment? The one where we're supposed to interview someone about their job?"
Alex, clearly relieved to have a distraction, clicked the TV off with finality. "Yeah. I'm writing about my dad."
Jon blinked. "Wait, seriously? I was going to write about Phil too."
Their reactions were synchronized to a comical degree—matching groans, shared eye-rolls, a moment of united frustration before the inevitable return of hostilities.
Alex turned toward him with the sort of deliberate, predatory poise that usually meant she was about to destroy someone in a debate club setting. "Yeah, no. That's not happening. We can't both write about my dad."
Jon gave a lazy shrug, like he didn't just feel his entire plan unravel. "Why not? I mean, he's probably the most accessible working adult we know. Real estate's kind of interesting. Sort of. In a weird way."
Alex's arms crossed slowly, deliberately. Her eyebrow lifted with surgical precision. "Because he's my dad, Jon. I have a genetic claim. You're basically a stranger to the family tree."
He tilted his head. "So biology is your argument now?"
She gave him a smile that was equal parts wicked and self-satisfied. "Let me explain it to you in small, manageable words, just in case the heat has already fried your brain: I'm his daughter. That gives me priority access."
Jon sat up a little straighter. "That's ridiculous. Let's be rational about this."
She narrowed her eyes, sensing a challenge. "I'm listening."
"A game. Something fair. Winner gets Phil. Loser finds another subject for the essay."
She grinned, teeth and all. "Fine. But I get to choose the game."
Jon, already halfway to regret, nodded anyway.
Ten Minutes Later – The Dunphy Kitchen
Scene of the Crime
The kitchen looked oddly formal, considering the horror about to unfold. Two sandwiches sat innocently on the table—except they weren't innocent at all. They were filled with a substance that looked like acrylic paint and smelled like industrial-strength regret. The color was an angry, artificial red—almost glowing under the kitchen lights.
Beside the sandwiches were two tall glasses of milk, sitting like neutral observers, or perhaps like smug little trophies neither of them would dare claim.
Alex stood with her arms behind her back, like a mad scientist unveiling an experiment. "Here's the game. This," she said, gesturing to the sandwich, "is the hottest hot sauce I could find in this entire house. Possibly this zip code. One sandwich each. First one to drink the milk loses. Winner writes about my dad. Got it?"
Jon squinted at the bread, mentally gauging its toxicity. "You sure you can handle this?"
She didn't flinch. "Jon, I read scientific journals about thermodynamics for fun. My pain threshold is theoretical."
He nodded, impressed and mildly alarmed. "Alright then. Let's do this."
He picked up the sandwich like it might bite him first, and in a brave, maybe foolish show of confidence, took a huge bite.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
His mouth combusted. Not figuratively. It felt like someone had poured molten lava across his tongue and then shoved a cactus down his throat for good measure. His vision wavered, as if the air itself had turned into heatwaves. His ears rang. He could hear his own heartbeat in his head—loud, irregular, panicked.
Alex, by contrast, chewed her's with all the emotion of someone eating dry toast while reviewing math equations in her head. No sweat, no tears, not even a blink. She was ice incarnate.
Jon tried to keep his cool. He finished his sandwich. He even wiped his mouth like some brave soldier in a war zone pretending the grenade didn't just go off next to him. But the fire didn't die—it only spread. Every breath was a betrayal. Every second, a punishment.
By minute six, he was blinking like someone had thrown sand in his eyes.
By minute eight, he was rocking back and forth like a monk trying to transcend pain.
By minute ten, he could take no more.
With a cry that might have been a whimper, he snatched the glass of milk and drank half of it in one go. The relief was immediate. So was the shame.
Alex, still entirely unbothered, calmly put her plate down and raised an eyebrow.
"Well done," she said in that annoyingly serene voice.
Jon coughed, still gulping the milk. "Okay, fine. You win. But seriously—how were you not dying?"
Alex slowly peeled open her sandwich. Inside: tomato sauce. Not hot sauce. Just... marinara.
Jon stared in betrayal so profound it might've been poetic. "You—You didn't even eat the hot sauce?!"
She smiled. "You agreed to the rules. I never said my sandwich had to have hot sauce. I just said it was a challenge. You assumed. I simply… let you."
Jon stared, mouth open, milk dribbling slightly. "That's... that's evil. Strategic, but evil."
She patted him on the shoulder, smug and victorious. "Jon, it's called tactics. You should really read the fine print next time."
As she walked away, her victory as complete as it was infuriating, she tossed one last parting shot over her shoulder. "Write about Gloria. It will be more dramatic."
Jon leaned against the sink, eyes watery, stomach still on fire. "I've been betrayed. Possibly poisoned."
From the hallway came a loud, frustrated scream from Manny: "LUKE'S CHEATING AGAIN!"
Jon stared into space, defeated. "What is this house?"