“Lord! Cut off your patter now! For God’s sake it’s not a difficult enterprise all the same … you take a fucking bow, some long-stem arrows and hit chests!”

The memory of her moribund mother lying on her piss-covered bed crossed his troubled mind whilst he was slapping the cherub’s face, “Hope you get the hell out of my house greedy bastard!” It was pretty common to hear his mother calling him “bastard”, “moron”, “scum”, “pussy” or simply “thing”, such fact pushed Larry, more than once, to wonder if she actually knew his name.  Anyways, let’s forget his childhood and go further ten years to that St. Valentine’s Day when Larry lost his mind sequestering a cherub.

Larry was a sturdily built bloke with thin mustache and long sideburns, the contrast between his massif back and tiny butt made him look like Taz the popular Tasmanian monster, idea reinforced by his non-stop wandering attitude in search of his twin soul, hence his friends nicknamed him “unflagging Taz”. Unfortunately for him and for his entourage as well, his twin soul lingered way behind, and that swamped his spirit into bitter despair.

After a very long and arduous pursuit of love without any success, our “unflagging Taz” was reduced to a pathetic plucked Tweety. Poor Larry, a complete wreck! Soon he seized the booze, lost his job and his relatives and friends drew away as though as if he was suffering from a deadly and contagious condition. No one was there; no one gave him a helping hand. No real pals in the horizon, in his pitch dark horizon.  “I never had true amity in my life…- he kept going kicking the back of the angel, I put all my hopes in love and, and you…- then furiously stuck his foot straight onto the cherub’s spinal and added- betrayed me as everybody else did son of a bitch!” That said he spitted in his round face.   

The spittle rolled over the cupid’s chubby cheeks; blood was overflowing and met every corner of the poor thing. His nose was broken, in fact, none of his bones were in the right place, and suddenly he opened his mouth and articulated in a confusing and whining nasal tone: “Please…sir, I’m not a cherub…have no bows- a coughing interrupted him a little, he felt the blood boiling therein his throat- it’s just a disguise.”