Cupid's doctor looked at him and sighed. He advised the little cherub -- who, truth be told, was no longer so little -- alright, in all honesty, he was fast becoming a miniature Mac truck -- that the cast would not come off for at least six weeks, and that he should keep his weight off the leg as much as possible.
Cupid winced. In his enthusiasm for a potential love match made in Heaven, he had flown out of the window of his office, completing forgetting all the years he had been abusing chocolate kisses and alcoholic aphrodisiacs. Fortunately, he had moved into the second floor of a low-rise; if he had still been in his fashionable Penthouse apartment, the Department of Public Sanitation would still be scraping Cherub remains off the pavement.
Bad times were everywhere, of course, but the mythological/industrial complex seemed the hardest hit. The day before his accident, Cupid had gotten a call from an after hours bar about a couple that had shown real romantic potential. Cupid was in high spirits, even after he was forced to leave his bow and arrow at the door (he always enjoyed being frisked).
Cupid had trouble following the glow of love amid the smoke and lasers, but he finally found the couple. They were virtually indistinguishable in tight leather and gleaming studs, heavily moussed black hair and colourful eye makeup, but this didn't deter the cherub, who had long ago accepted homosexual love ("If it was good enough for the gods..."). Cupid whispered sweet nothings into the couples' ears.
Nothing happened. Cupid tried again. Still nothing. In desperation, Cupid shouted sweet nothings in their ears, attempting to be heard over a punk version of "Love Potion Number Nine." It was only then that he noticed their dilated pupils and realized that Bacchus had gotten to them first, and that they wouldn't be feeling anything for days.
A week before, Cupid had been called to a nice suburban home, only to find his target to be a man falling in love with an actress in a pornographic video he watched over and over... A new god will have to be born to consummate people's love affair with technology, Cupid thought bitterly as he left.
The most disappointing thing, however, happened two months earlier. It was a quiet dinner in an upscale restaurant. A relatively young couple, good food, romantic setting; all the signs seemed right. Except the couple had brought their lawyers along in order to finalize a pre-relationship agreement.
Cupid, being a romantic at heart, naively strung his bow; just as he was about to let fly, the maitre d' tapped his shoulder and asked if he was aware of the restaurant's dress code. The bolt, meant for one of the couple, hit one of the lawyers instead. The lawsuits and counterlawsuits could take years to make their way through the courts.
Twelve years of conservative governments had truly made the world a meaner place.
Not that Cupid wasn't willing, even eager to keep up with the times. He had learned about a group, called Scientologists, that had developed something called a "love bomb." Cupid hoped that scientific progress could cure what it had made ill, that a love bomb could be used to force an emotionally challenged population to submit to his gentle arts. Unfortunately, when he was called to his first retreat, Cupid found love bombing involved large amounts of nutrient-deficient food, sleep deprivation and isolation from friends, family and -- gulp -- loved ones.
Cupid consulted Masters and Johnson, who could tell him how frequently bored housewives in the suburbs masturbated while thinking of Richard Gere, but could not tell him whether they truly loved their spouses. He consulted Camille Paglia, who told him that male/female relationships were a battlefield (why did he think he carried that bow and arrow?), and that women should start coming armed.
After he heard that, Cupid hit the aphrodisiacs. Hard.
The doctor told Cupid to get dressed. The cherub pulled on his diaphonous robes. The doctor gave Cupid the usual warnings about cutting down his cholesterol and not flying out of windows unless he lost about 20 pounds. Then, hesitatingly, almost embarrassed, the doctor suggested a place where Cupid might get some help. In desperation, Cupid took the card and made an appointment.
Cupid found himself in a dingy hall with a couple hundred folding chairs facing a plain stage. The chairs were filled with the lost and the lovelorn, people who, if they hadn't loved too well, at least loved too much. Cupid walked up onto the stage and took the podium.
"My name is Cupid," he said into the microphone, "and I'm addicted to love..."
