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).”

“Alas! We shall dine on red snapper and shoot one another in the face!”

And a better Valentine’s Day has never been known.