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Cooking with The Actual Charlton Heston


And so I stood: Shirtless, wearing an apron on which the words "Born To Ride" were proudly emblazoned. I cooked. Fiercely, ceaselessly, with a burning bosom, I cooked. Recipes, I tried. A book's worth. None of them suited the genius I was set to conjure. I was as an apex predator that could also cook, and cooking I would have, clenched between my jaws, bloodied, and conquered.

I would cook.

Spices were poured, sprinkled and spritzed. Sauces were lathered, dolloped and dripped. An aroma wafted—lilted—skyward, fomenting unrest even amongst the angels. My spatula worked its febrile frenzy upon all foodstuffs present. My skillet flung to, fro, and back again, seeking flavor as its chiefest of prizes. I hungered, and nothing would sate me besides perfection. In the rictus of madness would be born a golden, holy chalice, from which God himself would eat and drink and sigh, satisfied at last.

I was warned, yes, vehemently. These words my dealer spoke: "I don't wanna, like, pry; I mean, your money's good, and you're my best customer, but I'm pretty sure 87 tablets of ecstasy will kill you."

A portent ignored for the betterment of fine dining the world over.

My pants discarded and sweat coursing down my brow, I prepared the crux of my endeavor: Raccoon, I was told, is no small quarry; but I would have it, and have it I did, locked within a mini-fridge I was told belonged to Elvis. Really, that was the largest selling point, and that garage sale contained many such celebrity treasures, assuring their various authenticites with professional-looking certificates. Needless to say, I bought out the place, as any wise man would, finances be damned.

(Finances were scarce, I had to sell a lot of blood and plasma)

Food, in my madness, I spun. A tornado of pallete-destroying perfection, my goal. A grease fire, as it turned out, my plight. Something else altogther was emblazoned upon my chest, and it conspicuously bore the shape of a raccoon; my prey had broken free of its frigid prison, and now, possessed by Hades, he sought the destruction of my holy feast.

We wrestled, the beast and I, as a fire burned, most ominously, in the background. And the foreground. All grounds, really; also on the beast, which, in retrospect, I believe may have been the root cause of its berserker rage; but such things do not cross one's mind when one is violently engaged in mortal combat with a demonic, flaming woodland creature.

We embraced violently, and as our eyes locked, the creature knew me, and I it. It expressed this newfound intimacy by connecting its teeth to my eye; an odd way to express friendship, I thought, but then again, I am a stranger to woodland customs and culture so, after some consideration, I returned the gesture in kind, while making a mental note to check the availability of any College classes or Literature pertaining to the subject of Forest Customs. Best not to be caught off guard in the future.

It was at this point—or rather and more specifically, ten minutes after this point, that I passed out due to blood loss. My foe had gotten the better of me, and being a creature without honor, it left me there, amid the blaze, to perish. I know this is what happened, despite the account of the Firemen who arrived moments after, who purptored that the raccoon had died of smoke inhalation. I make another mental note to research thoroughly the connection and kinship between raccoons and Firemen, as I am positive they are conspiring against me; Firemen are snakes; raccoons are raccoons; I make an additional mental note to read up on the definitions of the words "Firemen" and "raccoon," as I foresee further interaction with both sorts as an eventuality.

Mental notes, it turns out, are hard to keep track of with 1.5 kilograms of morphine coursing through one's system. Before I know it, we've arrived at the Hospital. I'm told I spent the better part of the trip there grabbing at the EMT's nipples and giggling, punctuated by paroxysms of passionately singing Toto's "Africa" and various Phil Collins hits. I try my best to make a mental note to see if I can't get a hold of some morphine for later use, before I'm interrupted by a sudden urge to belt out the chorus to "In The Air Tonight," and the note is lost amid the flurry of air-drum solos; I held my air-drumsticks aloft in a criss-crossing position before letting out one last, triumphant bellow of '80s power ballad high-notes.

"I don't have insurance" is my last conscious thought before I am swallowed by a deep, comforting blackness; so aphotic, yet so warm.

I have got to get a hold of some morphine.


- From my cold, dead hands.

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About The Actual Charlton Hestonone of us since 6:46 AM on 12.24.2017

I'm actually Charlton Heston. What, were you expecting some purple prose? An overwrought introduction? Get off of my property, you filthy God damn hippie.