April 05, 2006

After breakfast, they both put on the anniversary shirts they got from the internet to celebrate two years of tenderness. Sherry’s shirt said, “When the Boogie Man goes to sleep, he checks under the bed for Chuck Norris.” Regan’s said, “Behind Chuck Norris’ beard there is no chin, only another fist.”

“The same is true of me,” he noted, scratching his beard. “I have no face, only fists.”

And despite the fact that I have neither a beard nor a Chuck Norris shirt, they let me tag along with them to the park to chase ducks and tiny children with my camera. “Look! Dinner!” Sherry said. “I’ve never eaten ducks before,” I told her once we perched ourselves on a toppled tree that leaned dangerously over the muddy river bed.

We quietly feared the mud beneath us. Earlier we saw abandoned shoes emerge from that primordial filth, shoes lacking legs or restraint!

When we climbed down from our perches, we ran away from the riverbank through fileds that smelled like poop. They held hands and occasionally head-butted each other as we searched for the source of foul odours. We found it right in the middle of the park — the sewage treatment plant. The city of London processes its feces in central locations throughout the city so all citizens can enjoy the process.

Regan and I sneaked on top of a nearby hill to get a better look. Trees got in the way of our lenses, but we did manage to find Chuck Norris somewhere on top of that hill. Dead.

The City of London kills all of my heroes and lovers.