Charles V.
"I'm gonna count to 1-2-3 and when I come out there better be a marshmallow out there. Enough of this you kids are hiding. There better be whole a new idea out there for me." Boy could he guffaw. After a clever ringle-dingle, stuff he'd call out and shit, there was more in store for blubbery button pants besides what they used to call him than you better believe in. And you better believe him. Everybody knew. Everybody was in on the joke.
People say Charles invaded whole countrysides. "Charles would haul off and finish entire paragraphs if that suited him," if that's not good enough for him either then fuck it. Whatever ain't good enough ain't good enough for him. Things suited him. And that's just the way it was. When stuff happened he wasn't flipping around. Charles mistook his up for his sound advice from a friend: bing-bang-boom there you go there you had it it was done when Charles walk in the room huh.
"I'm gonna romp and stomp. Here's the way stuff gets broken sometimes on the way in from where you're going, right? What'd I just say? You couldn't dare me not now you don't get going on this doing going to do whoop de doo. Stop cleaning your bedrooms! Stop the boat!" This would go on for hours. Charles knew how to barge his situation into any second-hand conversation. "Getting the job done," he'd say. "Getting it done." I'll show you getting it done. Get it done. There's no telling Charles. "Hey Charles," you'd say. But he wasn't hearing it. "But most common-folk don't understand me." There was too much to do around the house for this shit. Who was refilling the coffee filter, huh? Who had the fucking guts in this house near-a-days?
Charles' big freckles weren't getting any prettier. Who was gonna tell him that? You gonna tell him that? Not so smart when you're thinking now are you? And you thought you was gonna tell Charles? "Charles is sick of taking the car to the shop." Charles got the whole 5th grade on his side and AIDS. Little Billy, Sally, Undiehead and Bobby from down the street all knew which corner to stand in. He'd take those kids handstanding. Call em honey cakes. Golden honey cakes sweetened with sweety frosting sucrose and sugary spices in line to find out what's up, cutting me off and stuff. "Baby sweetness, make that boob smacking sound with your lips again," I'd tell him. "I'm making sounds," Charles would say afterwards, making silly faces, his eyes closed.
But listen lady, listen. I know you didn't come over here for all of this. We all got too much time for this. Bottom line always was we don't care; yours is mine is yours is mine but it's all gonna end up Charles'es'sses'. This is all besides the point. You don't know Charles. He just came in from the backyard.
