SATURDAY

If it weren’t for the evil, German capitalist who assassinated his mother all those years ago, Chuck Steak “the action hero” wouldn’t exist. He’d most likely be hosting his own show on HGTV, and even though he’d prefer it be interior decorating related, the network, due to his puntastic name, would “highly encourage” him to choose Well Done, Chuck Steak the cooking show. And “highly encourage” in layman’s terms meant “say yes or go fuck yourself”.

Chuck could certainly use a mother’s guidance for what’s to come, but the unknown, lunatic caller driving this tale forward will have to suffice for the time being.

The doorbell rings, so Chuck holsters his oven mitts and rushes to answer. In the hallway, he jogs past a standard living room on the right, a great room on the left, the formal dining room on the right, a bathroom on the left, and Chuck’s memorabilia room on the final right—the previous owners used this space as an office.

The memorabilia room is filled with shelves made of glass and desks made of cocobolo. There are two reclining, leather chairs aimed at it all. And the walls have been painted Peach Tickle. Chuck hand-picked and self-applied this special color. He likes to plop down, kick his feet up, kick his boots off, pour a mountain of baby powder into the palm of his hand, reach down and slap it against his undercarriage, rub it around so it’s all smooth-sailings, then peruse the plethora of framed pictures and magazine articles and newspaper clippings of each and every ass-whoopin’ he’s ever dealt. And then he likes to meditate.

Why Peach Tickle?

Well, back in the early ‘90s, Little Chuck would rush home from school in order to get a jumpstart on livening up whatever drab apartment his mother had relocated him to. She hated the instability. Often times, she’d sit little Chuck down and say, “Do you think I’m a terrible mother?” He’d wrap her up fast with a strong hug, a strength unbefitting his stick-like frame, and whisper, “No, Mom—Hell no!” She’d reprimand him for the language and explain that even though the world wasn’t decent, that didn’t give them the right to be indecent. Then she’d squeeze him back and say, “I love you so.”

To prove his love, to grant her some sort of relief, Chuck would dive into renovations while his mother worked tirelessly to keep their only source of income, a self-owned convenient store, afloat.

Chuck would patch holes in the walls with colorful pictures he’d drawn at school. He’d trace unwanted bugs back to their cracks and crevices and destroy their nests. Spiders were okay in his book. In fact, he considered himself and arachnids partners in crime.

Chuck would also fix leaky pipes and polish rusty metal and chisel off black continents of mold.

His mother stumbled home exhausted, riddled with body aches. It’d take a bit for her to notice a loose bannister retightened, or a dead outlet rewired, but when she did, she’d stumble right into Chuck’s bedroom, wake him from his peaceful slumber, and she’d profess her love for him, and she’d gush and praise about all the improvements, about how thoughtful and skillful they were, and then she’d get that tear in her eye, the one which rolled around the bottom of her lid—the one signifying that she had bad news to break—that she had been robbed at gunpoint yet again, so they were going to have to downgrade into an even shittier apartment.

Near the end, the two were living in the convenient store’s office which turned out to be the most inconvenient place yet.

Chuck’s dream of becoming an interior decorator died the same night he watched his mother shot execution-style and lit ablaze.

He didn’t want to be soft anymore.

He didn’t want to be puny.

Helpless.

Gentle.

Loving.

Kind.

Polite.

He didn’t want to continue to fix things which the next person to come along would just ruin or let fall to shit.

So he became hard.

And angry.

And developed a nasty temper.

And a thirst for vengeance.

And also a thirst for fist-pummeling wrong-doers. And cocky pricks. And inconsiderate douche bags.

This information would help Lieutenant Anderson understand how it is Chuck can nonchalantly destroy half of the city on a consistent basis.

But Chuck refuses to talk about B.C.S. (Before Chuck Steak), because that kid was a fucking pussy who let his mother die, so let’s honor his decision and cease immediately, at least for the time being.

Mia’s parents are the first to arrive. As Chuck opens the door, it’s like there’s a string attached to the knob and her father’s hand. Suddenly, the rough paw is in Chuck’s face. It bobs. A deep, confident, snooty voice plays. It’s Orpheus’, the father. He’s wide-eyed as he nods at his outgoing hand and says, “The lord is great, Chuck.”

This man is not an idiot. He’s a repeat customer of the nightly news. He likes to be in-the-know about the current issues plaguing the world. He likes to figure out ways he and his lord can repair things back to their collective image of how things should be. To Orpheus, Chuck Steak is a problem in dire need of fixing.

“Thanks for coming,” Chuck says, caving on the handshake.

The two fists bob strong. “The lord’s great.” Just in case it went unheard.

“Yeah, got it.” He turns to hug the mother, Henriette. “You look lovely this evening.”

Orpheus sidesteps into the hug and squeezes Chuck tight and leans in and whispers into his ear, “Lord…great.”

This is not the main reason Chuck has yet to propose to Mia, although it’s a goddamn fantastic one.

Chuck brings his lips next to Orpheus’ ear and whispers, “Oh…kay.”

“See!” Orpheus pops off and claps and swings around to face his wife and says, “I knew there was some hope for this one. I just knew it.”

Chuck is Orpheus’ ticket into Heaven. He has imagined himself on numerous occasions standing at the pearly white gates, and the gatekeeper instantly recognizing Orpheus’ name and shouting, “Hey, everybody, get over here quick! It’s the guy who converted the unconvertible Chuck Steak! Sweet Jesus.” And the gatekeeper would glance over his shoulder at Jesus in the distance, who, without a doubt, had heard him, and mumble, “Sorry, Jesus.” He’d shake it off and continue, “You’re like really famous up here, Man.”

That is Orpheus’ pig-in-shit dream. But even so, that doesn’t mean he wants his daughter anywhere near Chuck. In fact, if Orpheus could break down and rebuild the mighty Chuck Steak according to his and his lord’s specific blueprint, the once-demonic cop still wouldn’t be good enough for his precious baby.

“And what is this I’m looking at, Chuck?” Orpheus has never been welcome inside Chuck’s condo, so the memorabilia room is a flashy, new thing to him.

“Oh, just past accomplishments.”

“No, Chuck. No, no, no.” Orpheus is too close. His panting fogs the French doors’ glass. “Those are sins.”

Orpheus is lucky there’s a bomb lodged in his daughter’s liver, and that Chuck’s new mom has concocted a list of chores for him to complete in the allotted time to prevent said bomb from detonating.

The things Chuck would do besides grunt the offensive accusation off and turn and invite the duo further into his peaceful abode.

He tries to unload them into the formal dining room, at the fancily prepared table with its vibrantly white, unwrinkled table cloth, its shimmering and perfectly set dinnerware, the bleeding candles. But Orpheus can’t be chained and contained. He puts a stubborn finger up and says, “Chuck, a word?”

They step, man to man, into the bathroom. The door’s pulled shut, softly. Orpheus flicks the fan on to drown out their voices. He examines the mint green color-scheme. The fluffy, hanging bath towels. The shag throw. The glass jug filled with mouthwash, and next to it, a stack of plastic, black, one-use cups.

“Are you gay, Chuck? Is that what this is all about? Is that why you’re stringing my daughter along? Why you pretend to be the toughest man in the world? Because secretly you’re gay, and you know it’s terribly wrong, and you think if someone finds out, you’ll go straight to Hell?” Orpheus has the nerve to poke Chuck in the chest. He does it over and over again, each word annunciated by a poke. “Newsflash, Chuck, the lord already knows. He knows everything. He’s always everywhere. He sees and hears everything.”

Then he’s fucking nosey. With one simple flick to the nuts, he could bring Orpheus whimpering to his knees. Chuck would snap a picture and get it blown up big for his memorabilia room’s wall. It’d be the focal point.

This is Chuck’s pig-in-shit dream.

“I’m not gay,” Chuck says, “I actually wanna propose to Mia, and I’d like…” He clears his throat. “…your blessing.”

“So that’s why you dragged us all over here.” Orpheus chuckles. “Even if you weren’t gay, why would I ever, in a million, trillion years, consent to such blasphemy?”

The doorbell rings again. That’s Mia’s slightly younger brother, Chet. Chet’s a closet homosexual. He has never, even once, thought about coming clean to his parents. When the father eventually passes, he’ll let the entire world know. But until then, he has a reputation to uphold.

“I bet that’s Chet,” Orpheus says, smiling. “Now there’s a real, straight man, Chuck. You should take notes.” He winks and turns to leave.

“Wait.”

“I think we’ve kept my wife on hold long enough, don’t you think, Chuck?”

Why does this man insist on using a person’s name over and over again? It gets repetitive. Doesn’t he realize once a name’s announced for the record, it no longer needs to be stated?

“Come on, work with me on this.”

What Orpheus does is chortles his way out into the hallway. He chortles all the way to the front door where he helps himself to the knob and the right to not only answer, but to grant access to a residence he holds on stake in.

“Chet!” Orpheus goes in for a hug, like usual, and Chet throws up a flaccid hand, like usual, and reminds his father with a long, overdrawn sigh, “Come on, Pops, hugs are gay. How many times I gotta tell ya that?”

Orpheus turns, and he and Chuck shoot stares across the seemingly endless hallway. It represents a gap which will remain between them always and forever. “See, Chuck, this here is a real man.”

Chuck would love none other than to effortlessly snap off Orpheus’ thumb, which he confidently bobs at his blatantly gay son, but the problem is this:

If Chuck can’t successfully check every chore off of his list, which includes finding a way to marry Mia and get her father’s blessing amongst others, then in roughly forty-two minutes, there won’t be any Mia left.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Chuck said to the lunatic earlier on the phone. “What do you get out of me marrying her?”

“It’s not what I’ll get out of it, Chuck. Think about the audience. Why should anyone care about you in your current state? You’ve been in a relationship with a sweet girl for over a decade and you’ve yet to tie the knot. You’re scared of commitment, and nobody will appreciate that.

“If you’re going to be the hero of this story, then everybody needs to like you.”

“Quick, look down!”

“What is it?”

“Made you look.”

“See, you’re a tool.”

Orpheus leads Chet into the formal dining room. He tells his son to take a seat, to take a load off, but Chet waves him off, says he doesn’t listen to orders—that he’ll stand like a man.

When Chuck floats in to unload a silver, lidded, steaming platter, Orpheus nods at his son and says, “See, this here’s a real man. Won’t hug. Won’t sit. Won’t listen. One-hundred-percent man.” The blasphemy kills him, but after Chuck deposits the entrée, he tucks his head and scurries on out of there. He is, in fact, sporting two plaid mittens along with a knee-low, beige apron reading, I’m grilling a witness. Even though it’s a clever, fitting message, nothing changes the fact that Chuck’s befitted in such feminine attire. But this is the only place in the world where he’s allowed himself to undress his vulnerabilities. That’s why he never proposed to Mia—he never wanted her life involved in the stakes. That’s why, at one point in time, after his mother’s death began creeping back inside his thoughts, he allowed his love to plateau—because he knew the greater the love, the greater the loss.

And he didn’t want to feel the immensity of such pain ever again, even though it’s meant lying to the world about his true feelings.

By the time Chuck returns with a steaming bowl in either mitten filled with loaded, mashed potatoes and lobster risotto, his beloved Mia has arrived unannounced. She goes in for a hug with Orpheus who’s seated at the head of the table, and after they pat each other’s backs and pull away, he says, “Why didn’t you ring? I would’ve let you in.”

“Dad, I have a key.”

“Right, of course you do. Why wouldn’t you, Mia?”

She shakes her head, because she’s not an idiot, either—she knows this little get together probably isn’t going to end well. Which prompts her to utter, while leaning in to place a neat, secretive kiss on the side of Chuck’s rough, square chin, “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

He nods.

“Because I’m nervous, and you know me—I seldom get nervous.”

Chuck hurries into the kitchen and consults his wrist.

He’s got twenty-one minutes left.

He was going to toss a salad, but there’s no time for that shit. When Chuck turns around to get the ball rolling, he bumps into Chet.

“Sup, Dawg?” Chet bobs his bald head. “You gots yourself like a maid or something?”

“No.” Not only is Chet a closet homosexual in his dad’s presence, but he’s also a closet gentleman. Chet is a sophisticated man who frowns upon such ghetto language. Chuck’s had drinks with him and Mia countless times, and every question he’s ever asked has ended with please. “No maid, no butler. Now can we all just sit down and eat?”

“Damn, yo, it look like a bitch live here.”

“Chet!” Mia blurts.

Orpheus is hunched over in his master throne, laughing whilst slapping his knee. “That’s my boy,” he chants repeatedly.

Chet gives Chuck a slight shrug coupled with a nervous wink. Chuck doesn’t wink back, because since the arrival of the parents, there has been an uncomfortable amount of weird touches and looks going on.

Everyone finally takes their seats with nineteen minutes and twelve seconds to go.

Everyone makes tents out of their hands and puts them on display. Chuck’s is barely visible, so the head of the table, the new alpha male known as Orpheus, clears the snot from his nasal cavities and says, “Come on now, Chuck, don’t be shy. Put your elbows up.”

Chuck lugs his elbows onto the table.

“There ya go, Chuck.”

The table might as well be a sauna. Everything steams. Chuck feels the loss of mass. His face melts off.

“Dear Lord,” Orpheus says with shut eyes, “thank you for another day of life. You’re too kind, honestly. Truly. Wholeheartedly. And thank you for—”

“Ahem.”

Everyone looks at Chuck. He mumbles.

“What, Chuck?” Orpheus says as he cups his ear. “Speak up, Chuck.”

“I’d like to lead grace.” Of course this here’s a blatant lie. Everybody knows, especially Mia.

“But you hate grace,” Mia whispers.

He’s always hated grace, even before Orpheus randomly called on him one Thanksgiving and said, “I think we’d all finally like to hear you lead for once, Chuck.”

Chuck panicked and drew a blank. Seconds earlier, he had been reliving an event from the previous day where he thwarted a villain who called himself The Gardener. The event had made Chuck giggle, so this was Orpheus’ revenge:

“Come on, Hotshot, it’s only grace.”

The entire length of the table stared at Chuck. There must have been thirty-some Johnsons there.

“Hello?” Orpheus knocked. “Earth to Chuck Steak! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

In his mind, Chuck was still stuck with The Gardener. The guy wore an aluminum bucket on his head, a bright yellow, plastic raincoat, and matching rain boots. What sort of crime did The Gardener commit? Well, he snuck into citizens’ professionally landscaped yards to plant goutweed, periwinkle, poor man’s mustard, English ivy, and dog-strangling vine amongst many others. Over time, The Gardener wreaked havoc upon lawns. Over time, The Gardener ruined peoples’ perception of perfection.

Chuck had long since forgotten about that dreadful Thanksgiving where he never mustered forth the strength to give grace its due diligence.

“Hello?” Orpheus knocks on the table. “Earth to Chuck Steak!” Déjà vu.

Chuck’s trapped in time with The Gardener. The madman would venture back to the scene of his crimes. He’d catch his victims on all fours, lost in the foliage, hacking at the land with their weeding hoes, trying to undo all of The Gardener’s hard-earned work of weed-planting. Angered and confused and feeling a sense of entitlement, The Gardener would use bricks to beat the homeowners in the back of their sweaty heads. When the victims eventually came to, they found themselves blinded by the blistering sun. Their mouths were stuffed with leaves and bound by vines. And worst of all, they couldn’t move a muscle, for they were planted, neck-deep, in the soil. Seven out of The Gardener’s nine victims succumbed to heat exhaustion. One went by way of vengeful sewer rats driven by their ancestors’ brutal and unjust demises. And the last, such an unlucky S.O.B., went by way of their significant other. The significant other, a wife, had peeked out into the yard, seen the weeds still plaguing her garden, yelled for her husband, his name was Ben, and when Ben didn’t answer, she became annoyed, because she had told poor Ben to whack the weeds at least sixteen times that very day. Maddened, she set off to complete this chore herself. Thus, poor Ben got taken out by his own wife’s atrocious weed-whacking abilities.

“Well,” says Orpheus, “this is downright embarrassing.”

One would logically assume Chuck Steak got ahold of The Gardener in the nick of time before attacking a tenth victim and successfully planted the maniac in the ground to give him a dose of his own medicine, but this was not the case.

“I’m sorry, Lord,” Orpheus shuts his eyes again and chuckles, “but some things never change. And sometimes, Lord, certain people just don’t belong. They’re out of place. They need to hit the road and never come back.”

Orpheus knows all too well the memory of which Chuck Steak is currently reliving.

Chuck Steak yelled, “Freeze!”

The Gardener dropped his steel, handheld spade and fat, hemp bag. The spade speared the ground. The bag burst open and spilled seeds. The Gardener swiveled around mannequin-like, the plastic coat making weird rubbery noises as he did. With his hands held behind his head, The Gardener frowned and said, “Didn’t see this coming.”

“Me either.” Chuck lowered his cannon a notch. “I never thought I’d yell freeze. This sucks.”

Some time passed. It was awfully boring.

“Well, what’s going on here? My arms are getting tired. Are you arresting me or not?”

Chuck shrugged.

“You wanted to blow my head off, didn’t ya?”

The answer was obvious, so Chuck did something more beneficial—he looked around. He nodded at a toolshed located at the yard’s furthermost corner.

“What about it?”

Chuck nodded again.

“I don’t like this. Tell me what you mean.”

Chuck lowered his goddamn cannon and head-banged at the shed.

“Ah, I get it.” The Gardener took off in a full sprint. His boots squished with each step, because it had just rained. His boots became hairier with each step, because the homeowner had just mowed the lawn. He reached the shed first and flung the door open. Inside, he found an arsenal of backyard weaponry. The door closed and locked. It had become a changing room of sorts.

Chuck skidded and squished to a halt. He waited patiently, yet eagerly, in a puddle of muck. He had dropped his cannon yards back and bent over to pick up The Gardener’s handheld spade instead. Thus why he finished second. And he would’ve wanted it no other way, for he had previously envisioned the encounter as epic—as a story which would be handed down throughout the ages from one action lover to the next.

The shed door popped open.

The Gardener stood slumped with a leaf blower slipping from his limp, gloved grip.

“Really?” Chuck said. He looked back over his shoulder and spotted the homeowner crouched and peeking out a second-story window. The homeowner had a cell pressed into the side of her face, and her lips were paused, waiting anxiously to spit out, in great detail, exactly what was about to transpire between the two rivaling forces.

“There’s nothing else in there?” Chuck whelled. Whelled is what occurs when one attempts to yell and whisper at the same time.

The Gardener let the leaf blower drop as he rummaged around for a few more seconds. This time he clutched a chainsaw which lacked an actual chain.

“Whatever,” Chuck said, “just fire it up.” He figured the homeowner wouldn’t know the difference.

But the chainsaw only sputtered.

“It’s outta gas.”

“In addition to murdering people, can you do other stuff, like make noises?”

The Gardener’s chainsaw impression sounded like a ripping fart.

“Well shit,” Chuck noticed the homeowner blabbing away, “quick, grab something and come at me already. And make sure it’s sharp!”

“Got it!” The Gardener hit the grass running, and slipped. He lunged forward as if flying. He had a death grip on his choice of weapon, but unfortunately, he had ignored the cardinal rule of keeping all blades face-down. Was it so surprising that a serial killer had chosen to break every rule imaginable? No. But what was surprising, especially to Chuck, was when The Gardener broke the fall with a pitchfork through the face. Close-up, The Gardener was absurdly dead. From a distance, depending on the angle and whether or not the homeowner had any sight impairments, The Gardener could’ve very well still been alive and kickin’.

Chuck took hold of The Gardener’s hanging wrists. He raised them into plain sight. Then he began smacking himself across the face with the dead palms. The pitchfork impalement kept getting in the way, so Chuck used the hands to pluck it free—nothing looked natural—then he palmed the pitchfork and speared it through his own shoulder. Both men collapsed.

This went on for some time.

It played out like a crossover event of Fight Club meets Weekend at Bernie’s.

It ended with Chuck, shirtless, bleeding profusely from the face, driving away from a cornfield on a tractor at 5mph. The cornfield was on fire. Chuck hoped it would explode, but it did no such thing. So, with the homeowner still blabbing away on the phone, he did the next best thing—he hit the shed head-on—he actually bumped into it and came to a peaceful stop—and then he flung himself off to complete a half flip before belly-flopping onto the soggy ground.

He peeled his face from the mud, and glancing at the homeowner, gave her a thumb up.

“Hold on, Dad,” Mia says. She leans into Chuck and, staring down at the napkin on his lap which has been scribbled all over, whispers, “why are you being so weird?”

Because Chuck has to give an awkwardly prepared grace.

Because he has to serve her parents a delicious smörgåsbord of food they can’t eat.

Because he has to break the news that Chet’s gay.

Because he has to slap Henriette on the ass, get Orpheus’ blessing, and then propose to Mia and have her say yes.

It’s never going to work.

Chuck secretly checks the ticking, blue digits and discovers that it’s T-minus thirteen minutes and one second until failure.

“Can I finish this grace already?” Orpheus says. He looks at each individual as he says, “Mia? Chuck? Henriette?” She doesn’t talk—not because she can’t, but because she chooses her words very wisely. She is not, in essence, a hot-air balloon like her husband. “Chet?”

Chet leans back in his frail chair, bending the poled legs, and says, “I don’t see why not, Nigga.”

“See, that’s funny,” Orpheus smiles big, putting his bleached-white teeth on display, “because it’s something only a black person can say.”

Great, now race is suddenly involved.

“As I was saying, Lord—”

“No, as I was saying,” Chuck says.

“Excuse me?” Orpheus does a double-take.

“I didn’t get to finish grace.”

“You’re about ten years too late, wouldn’t you say, Chuck?”

Chet laughs hysterically. Nobody joins him, so the laugh ends abruptly.

Chuck flattens the napkin on his lap. He drips sweat profusely, dotting and blurring words at random. He clears his throat, and with eleven minutes and fourteen seconds remaining, says, “Dear Zen Aee…Aees…”

The looks he’s getting.

“Zen Aeesho’po!” Success at last. “You are—”

“Hold on a second, Chuck.” Orpheus’ ring-riddled hand has requested a timeout. “Who or what is this Zen Aee…Aees—”

“Zen Aeesho’po,” Chet says.

“Knew I could count on you, Pal.” He faces Chuck. “Well?”

“Will you just let him finish?” Mia says, and to Chuck, “I’m begging you.”

Chuck hasn’t looked up once. He stares at the napkin and realizes he has to start from scratch with ten minutes and nine seconds left. “Dear Zen Aeesho’po, the true creator of human life—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Orpheus’ hands are already en route to fetch the mini Bible from his breast pocket.

“—you created us through an experiment in your mother’s…” the word basement has been altered by the sweat, “butt.”

Everyone gasps.

“It’s obvious we are…” Another distorted word appears at random, this one failures, “fuck…fuckers?”

Mia latches onto the napkin because she’s determined to get to the bottom of this, but Chuck’s too quick. He latches onto the other end. An intense tug-of-war rages on as Orpheus finally manages to pluck his mini Bible free. It flops onto the table. He pins the thing down and furiously thumbs through the worn pages.

With eight minutes and thirty-two seconds to go, Orpheus pinpoints a paragraph and says, “Ah hah, right here, on page 232, it says, and I’m repeating this verbatim—”

“Does it say, ‘Orpheus, for the love of God, show some respect and let Chuck Steak finish his grace’?”

Orpheus checks.

Chuck wins tug-of-war. “Zen Aeesho’po, you tossed us into the Milky Way to avoid getting in trouble, because mother said, ‘Look here, Dumbass, no more experimenting, you hear?’”

Chet keeps his mouth covered in hands in an attempt to hide a flood of giggles.

“You didn’t hear, because…” He reads ahead and turns bright red. “No way.” He shakes his head in disgust.

Mia squeezes his arm—it’s like squeezing the stump of a tree. “This is because of the concussion, isn’t it?”

“I’m not doing it.” He crumbles the napkin, and with seven minutes and fifty-four seconds to go, a loud beep steals the room’s attention. It sounded like a smoke detector.

It beeps again, and suddenly everybody has made it their mission to quietly search for the source.

“You need to change the batteries once in a while, Chuck,” Orpheus says, figuring he’s easily solved the case, “you of all people should know this.”

Mia feels over her bubbled stomach. “I think that was me.”

“What? You beeped?”

Embarrassed, she won’t look them in the eyes while saying, “I think I passed gas.”

“And that’s the noise you make?”

“Lately, I think so.”

“You need to see a doctor, because that’s not normal, Mia. Why haven’t you gotten her in somewhere, Chuck? This is no longer funny, Chet.”

The napkin has been ironed out flat over Chuck’s knee. “You didn’t hear, because you wanted to create the best Mother’s Day gift ever.”

Henriette thinks that’s thoughtful.

“So you…” Chuck coughs out his anger. “…made a bunch of sex slaves to pleasure her.” He gags. “We are your mother’s failed sex toys.”

Henriette thinks that’s repulsive. Orpheus even more so as he pushes his chair back and shoots to a stand. “I’ve had enough. We’re leaving, and I believe I speak for everyone.” Henriette is fine with this decision. She stands alongside her man in silence.

Chet is on the fence.

“Hold on, that’s it.” Chuck balls the napkin and chucks it over his shoulder. “I’m done with grace. We can finally eat.” With six minutes and forty-six seconds to go.

Orpheus lifts one of the silver lids and releases a blast of the shredded, succulent beef basking in a glazed puddle of red wine and onion juices. “Really, Chuck?” Just a year ago, this was Orpheus’ absolute favorite dish. “You do know I’m a vegetarian now, don’t you?” The alpha male proceeds to lift the remaining lids, one by one, until all is revealed. “And I’m also gluten free, Chuck. I can’t eat any of this. Either can Henriette. We found out she’s allergic to gluten recently, and I’m very supportive. That’s why I’m gluten free, too, Chuck, to show my support.”

“Why are you a vegan?”

“Why am I a vegan?” Orpheus laughs as he scans the crowd. “Because it’s Lent, Chuck. I gave up the one food I love the most, meat.”

Mia has already begun digging in. She pretends she’s alone in her apartment and slaps three portions of loaded potatoes onto her plate.

“So this is reason you’ve been packing on the pounds, huh, Mia?” Orpheus stares hawk-like at her every move.

“Excuse me?” She stops mid-dip in the lobster risotto.

“I don’t mean to come across as accusatory, my dear. I know it’s not your fault. You’ve been blinded by this man.” He motions at Chuck. “He’s been coercing you into obscene amounts of food in order to decrease your value to other mates, thus ensuring he always has some sort of sick and twisted hold over you.”

Mia pushes back and shoots to her heels. “How dare you!”

Chet lifts himself up, because he doesn’t want to be the odd man out.

With under six minutes to go, Chuck has to face the shit storm head-on. He grips his steak knife and bangs the handle against the table, rattling what sounds like a China cabinet’s worth of glass.

He gets all the looks, but he only wants Mia’s hands, so he takes them and says to her belly, “You don’t look a pound heavier than the day I met you.”

Orpheus forces out an exaggerated cough, and somewhere in there was the word bullshit.

“And it doesn’t even matter, Mia, because I can’t stand those run-of-the-mill, easily breakable girls out there now-a-days. They’re all unhealthy. They’re all gonna fall apart at some point, and nobody’s gonna wanna put them back together. It’s just too much work.” He sighs. “They just don’t make ‘em like they used to. It’s not even about looks. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, but that’s not the reason I love you.”

Three minutes and sixteen seconds left.

“I love you because you’re a smart, independent businesswoman. You don’t talk just to hear your own voice—you take after your lovely mother, so you do everything by the book, and you work hard even if things aren’t fair, and you do what needs to be done because that’s that good ole-fashioned American work ethic everybody seems to have forgotten about.”

Mia can tell by his shaky voice something big’s on the horizon. She begins to shake, too, so Chuck squeezes her hands tighter, and they both tear up.

Two minutes and twenty-six seconds.

“I love you because you always smell like a tangerine, even after getting all sweaty from stuff like, well, like, whatever.”

She snorts. Chet giggles. Orpheus does not see the humor in any of this.

“You changed my from life the moment I met you, Mia, and the only reason I haven’t done this sooner,” he sneaks one hand into his back pocket, “is because the one thing I’d never be able to overcome is if anything ever happened to you.” He lowers himself onto one knee with one minute and forty-eight seconds to go and brings a shiny, platinum ring with a single pea-sized diamond to her ring finger’s nail. “I’m ready for the joys, and I’m more than ready to keep you safe for the rest of eternity. So will you, Mia Johnson—”

“Yes!” she blurts, guiding her trembling finger through the hole.

She saved him five extra seconds, leaving precisely fifty-three to go.

After a snappy kiss, Chuck’s on his feet, strategically maneuvering himself around the table to where the alpha male stands tall and stubborn.

“Orpheus, can I please get your blessing?” Orpheus smirks. “For the love of God, Man, come on. I’d do anything for your daughter.”

“You know, Chuck,” Orpheus has raised a lesson-teaching finger, “when I was your age…”

With under thirty seconds to go, Mia’s as good as dead. There’s simply no time to finish the rest of the chores. Hell, it seems like Chuck could go an eternity without getting a single blessing from Orpheus.

“Whoa, hold up!” Chuck blurts with twenty-two seconds remaining. “Can I at least get your blessing for the food?”

“Hmmm, I guess so, but that’ll be the only blessing you ever get from me.”

Ten, nine…

“But it’s a blessing none-the-less, right?”

Five.

“Sure.”

Four.

“Great!” Three. Chuck gives Henriette’s rump a mighty smack. Two. “Chet’s gay.” One.

No explosion.

Well, except for the entire room, which erupts into chaos.

Next Chapter: FULL NOVEL JUST RELEASED!