Beware the Peril of Lunchtime

So let’s talk about the sandwich for a moment, that legacy of John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich, famously corrupt and inept Lord of the Royal Navy, and inveterate gambler who needed something quick to eat at the card table. The-you know. There’s just something wrong with this guy. There’s still a godforsaken island chain named after him that neither the Brits nor Argentines wanted in the Falkland War and kept insisting belonged to the other fellow.

And his namesake, well, it’s just evil. Consider our manwich post of 3 October. A battalion commander-guy who probably knows his way around a sword and stuff-guts himself in one of those sandwich-making-gone-horribly-wrong accidents. To recap:

The inside of Cmdr. George A. Tucker:

That pink thing, that’s his stomach. The little purple doodad to its right, that’s a spleen. I could see how one could stab both while making a ham sandwich. Common enough. But to get up under the sternum and get to the heart? That’s Montagu’s hand stabbing from the heart of hell, it is.

And now, some witch, using sandwitchery, has bedeviled poor Raymond Adame. The likely final destination of his abduction of the pernicious Celina was to her coven at Wilson Sandwich…

-by “modern equipment” they mean hi-tech new streamlined cauldrons-for only there could they release the spell. Or maybe he was off to stone her, as per Leviticus 20:27.

He attempted to abduct her from here:

The sandwich is a wicked and cursed thing (the words “Ahriman” and “Sandwich” are interchangeable in ancient Persian, btw), and must be banished beyond the walls of the City.

You are in my power.