Wild Wing smells like a piss filled dumpster. Not the cute baby pee that smells like marshmallows and licorice but the concentrated, baked-in-the-sun piss of one thousand elderly alcoholics after an all night bender of southern comfort and miller.
The smell doesn't hit you when you enter but gradually permeates your skin and hair.
I ordered wings to-go and a beer at the bar. The beer was poured but then forgotten. While the beer was within arms-reach, I feared that I'd lose a hand to the swing of a rusty sword if I attempted to serve myself.
I can't comment on the quality of the wings. I needed three showers and four whiskies to get past the smell. By then, the wings were cold and hard.