Review: Valentine's day with Chuck

valentines head

Valentine’s
day: a day celebrated for the saint of love, the saint of sweet, sweet
sex. Sweet chocolate covered sex.

Yet mine
was spent with Chucky-Edge, the astoundingly masculine hulk, who, years
ago, was shipped to Boston from the left coast on a cargo plane filled
with famished wild boars. He, Chuck, was left to his own devices on
said cargo plane to fend off said hungry boars. The flight, which took
the better part of seven hours, was arduous. The flight was bloody.
The flight ended in death and cold, cold misery.

But it
was not Chucky-Edge (Chucky-Edge’s pseudonyms: Chedge, Charles Henry,
Chuck, Chucky, etc.) that perished. Lo! Twas that ravenous pack of brutes
that did the dying, see?

And when
Chucky-Edge arrived in Boston, in this inscrutable city—its streets
crawling with death, the neighboring sea teeming with life—he bore
gifts. Chucky-Edge lumbered from the bowels of that boiling beast, its
metal panels steaming in the hot sun, with the limp carcasses of five
swine thrown over his shoulders.

“Tonight
we feast!” roared Chucky-Edge in the lifeless Boston night.

His minions
swarmed and scant beggars were skewered alongside those tusked creatures
from the bush.

“Dine
subordinates! Dine on the flesh of sinners!”

After
a brief stint in prison (his crime is still untold…how can one be
prosecuted for being a living deity?) Chucky-Edge stepped to the arctic
Boston pavement a refreshed man. And like Saint Valentine did for Jesus
in the Golden Legend, I too did for Chucky-Edge.

“I
accept this man, this specter, as my leader.”

“Hang
him! String him up and drag him through the streets! Douse his garments
in kerosene and light him ablaze!”

Countless
Chucky-Edge detractors assembled in the streets. They carried long sticks
with flaming tips and chanted devilish songs at the sky, and all had
a penchant for my nubile throat.

And just
as I thought I’d be swallowed by that mob’s collective maw he swooped
in, his grip firmly secured to a cumulonimbus above, and snatched me
away from certain doom.

We met,
Chucky-Edge and I, later that evening at Kendall to see a movie called
‘The Signal,’ but the screening was cancelled and we never got the
chance to.

“No
need to fear,” declared Chucky-Edge. “I’ve got Swedish Fish and
an X-Box 360 (the X-Box 360 that I sold to him in September so I could
pay rent).”