Edward Boxingtonmann was an ordinary man, perhaps just like you or me. He didn't want much out of life: a modest, steady income, some friends to spend time with, a pretty woman to kiss on the mouth. Nothing unreasonable. But fate had dealt Ed a pretty heavy blow.
You see, in his early teens, Ed had noticed that his tongue was longer and more bulbous on its end than those of his classmates. By the time he graduated high school, his classmates had also noticed, and began talking about it behind his back. By the time Edward was celebrating his 21st birthday, his tongue had grown out of control. Whenever he opened his mouth wide, it shot out at amazing speeds.
Just a little red boxing glove, punching it's way out of Ed's oral cavity, and he had no control of it. This trait caught the attention of local law enforcement when, in college chorale, Ed knocked out Caesar, the Italian baritone who stood in front of him. Caesar spent six weeks in the hospital recovering from his head injuries. He was never able to sing again.
An enthusiastic Lieutenant Spitz reported in the local paper that Edward's "unique talent" was "nothing short of a superpower." And so it happened that the police force added Ed as an honorary member. Ed and his boxing glove tongue. Under intense police training, he worked out his mouth and neck so as to be able to sustain the stress of heavier and heavier tongue punches. Soon, his tongue was packing over 300 lbs of pressure per square inch. He could knock down a door just by facing it and opening his mouth wide:
*Gaw* POOSH!
Or take out a drug dealer:
*Gaw* SHPOP! ... thud
Ed was happy to help out the police force. The criminals, however, weren't so pleased. And so just like in comic books, Ed became a hero, and sad, sadistic criminals flocked to his home town of Cleveland, Ohio.
Soon, Ed Boxingtonmann was being kidnapped by these villainous wretches and tied up in dank basements, surrounded by masked men. Usually, he would find his mouth covered with duct tape and his arms and legs tied to a chair. No matter:
*Gaw* FWOOP! SHPACK! TAWANG! ...thud thud thud.
Ed would look around sadly at all the bodies and amble on back home. I think I'll fix some Lean Cuisine tonight, he would think.
Yes, Ed just wanted to live a quiet life. But society wouldn't let him have it. Not the bad guys. Not the good guys. Not the citizens of Cleveland. Everybody needs a hero, and Ed fit the bill. His depression grew like a great black wave.
And the villains kept coming. And justice continued to call for his help.
He had to stop it.
Ed sat at his house one night after consuming a rather unsatisfying TV dinner. He was crying. Nothing will stop them, he thought, from bothering me. All of my desires for life were just pipe dreams. Edward Boxingtonmann looked down at the floor, at his feet. He followed the crease in his pants up his legs and onto his crotch. He slouched back in his chair and looked at his stomach, and his eyes finally rested on his chest, his chin tucked down as far as it could go. He stared at where his heart was buried, listening to its pathetic beating. Keeping the beat to my life's cadence, he thought.
And that's when Ed enjoyed one of the only things he could call his own: his regret. I wish I didn't have this boxing glove tongue. I wish I didn't join the choir. I wish I would have learned to play the piano.
*Gaw*
You see, in his early teens, Ed had noticed that his tongue was longer and more bulbous on its end than those of his classmates. By the time he graduated high school, his classmates had also noticed, and began talking about it behind his back. By the time Edward was celebrating his 21st birthday, his tongue had grown out of control. Whenever he opened his mouth wide, it shot out at amazing speeds.
Just a little red boxing glove, punching it's way out of Ed's oral cavity, and he had no control of it. This trait caught the attention of local law enforcement when, in college chorale, Ed knocked out Caesar, the Italian baritone who stood in front of him. Caesar spent six weeks in the hospital recovering from his head injuries. He was never able to sing again.
An enthusiastic Lieutenant Spitz reported in the local paper that Edward's "unique talent" was "nothing short of a superpower." And so it happened that the police force added Ed as an honorary member. Ed and his boxing glove tongue. Under intense police training, he worked out his mouth and neck so as to be able to sustain the stress of heavier and heavier tongue punches. Soon, his tongue was packing over 300 lbs of pressure per square inch. He could knock down a door just by facing it and opening his mouth wide:
*Gaw* POOSH!
Or take out a drug dealer:
*Gaw* SHPOP! ... thud
Ed was happy to help out the police force. The criminals, however, weren't so pleased. And so just like in comic books, Ed became a hero, and sad, sadistic criminals flocked to his home town of Cleveland, Ohio.
Soon, Ed Boxingtonmann was being kidnapped by these villainous wretches and tied up in dank basements, surrounded by masked men. Usually, he would find his mouth covered with duct tape and his arms and legs tied to a chair. No matter:
*Gaw* FWOOP! SHPACK! TAWANG! ...thud thud thud.
Ed would look around sadly at all the bodies and amble on back home. I think I'll fix some Lean Cuisine tonight, he would think.
Yes, Ed just wanted to live a quiet life. But society wouldn't let him have it. Not the bad guys. Not the good guys. Not the citizens of Cleveland. Everybody needs a hero, and Ed fit the bill. His depression grew like a great black wave.
And the villains kept coming. And justice continued to call for his help.
He had to stop it.
Ed sat at his house one night after consuming a rather unsatisfying TV dinner. He was crying. Nothing will stop them, he thought, from bothering me. All of my desires for life were just pipe dreams. Edward Boxingtonmann looked down at the floor, at his feet. He followed the crease in his pants up his legs and onto his crotch. He slouched back in his chair and looked at his stomach, and his eyes finally rested on his chest, his chin tucked down as far as it could go. He stared at where his heart was buried, listening to its pathetic beating. Keeping the beat to my life's cadence, he thought.
And that's when Ed enjoyed one of the only things he could call his own: his regret. I wish I didn't have this boxing glove tongue. I wish I didn't join the choir. I wish I would have learned to play the piano.
*Gaw*
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