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  • Writer's pictureJeff South

Cincinnati Chili: Wild

A few more screams passed before Grover collected to himself with the help of Gwen’s soothing encouragement and a couple of shots of what the aliens swore was whiskey, but Grover wasn’t convinced. No matter, though. He had accepted the situation and had lowered the estimated years of therapy to recover from infinity to just under 112.

“Who are you guys?” he asked with a choked whisper.

“We are Herpezoids,” Legend stated, thumping his significant pectorals. “The wild beings of the galaxy!”

“That’s right!” came a shout from the group.

“We cannot be tamed!” bellowed another.

“Who wants fondue?” This call prompted a hearty cheer from the gang and the dispersed over to a buffet table that Grover was just realizing was there. Legend sat next to him and put his arm around him.

“I get it, mate. This is quite a bit to take in. But you are here for a reason. You have brought us the so-called Cincinnati Chili we have heard so much about.”

“Why do you have an Australian accent?” Grover asked.

“That’s what’s concerning you right now?” Gwen patted Grover’s knee. “Open the container for him, sweetie.”

Grover complied. He reached to floor where the chili sat between his feet, sat it in his lap, and opened it up. The smell was starting to get worse.

“So, that’s it, then?” Legend took the container and sniffed. “Will this make us human?”

“I don’t think so,” Gwen said. “I thought ‘Cincinnati Chili’ was a code word.

“Code for what?” Grover asked. “And what do you mean, ‘make us human?’”

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