Who is evil c love? Tosser; Trickster; Shakespeare-shafter; Shyster; Stylist; Anagram; Oxymoron; Pseudonym; Mask? That is the question. It's a question asked at the opening of this slippery little handbook of post-feminist, post-modern conjugal power-play by the narrator's equally shadowy, sexually ambiguous spouse Samantha, and it's certainly one the reader of either gender will want to take a position on; though whether it's a position that evil himself would welcome is either doubtful or irrelevant depending on the way that reader views the entirely fictional author of the entirely self-stimulating, indeed frankly onanistic, little fictions that form (as't'were) the heightened rhythmic right hand to the more homespun left hand examination of a literary apprenticeship that together make up the ambidextrous fabric, the sly and subversive score of Gulls and Chuffs. But, for all of ec's literary posturing, domestic ducking and diving and devious determination to dig deep into his ribald repertoire of febrile fantasy fulfillments, it's fair enough for the reader to wonder what's in it for me? What, when all's said and done is the score? Is it an allegory of millennial man's growing indeterminacy in the face of female emancipation? Is it a fearless exposure of the low life of the male mind, a retributive morality tale specially written to inform, educate, warn and ultimately gratify the fifty-one percent of the population that have no idea what goes on in there? Is it Shakespeare and All That for twenty-first century consumers stuck on the five-minute counter culture? Or is it a penis-powered panegyric to the redemptive possibilities of marauding masculine mind games penned in plonker-pulling prose by an author who thinks he knows the answers but isn't giving them up that easily. The only way to decide is to read it yourself.