And big fucking brass balls at that! Let me explain. My e-mail box is beginning to remind me of Facebook in that all kinds of lowlives from my past contact me like I’d ever want to hear from them again. And last night at 3 AM, sure enough, I got a message from good old Charlie Chump.
Charlie Chump is a fucking legend out in Brooklyn, a place I used to hate to sell ads because all the owners were such fucking thugs. And I don’t mean black thugs…I mean Italian thugs. Charlie was one of them, and as he was an Action advertiser (and I an employee at the magazine), I had no choice but to get on the L train and go to some God-forsaken neighborhood on the border of Brooklyn and Queens to visit the office.
And let me tell ya…you had to see this office to believe it. What a fucking mess. Crap all over the place in the form of both inanimate and human clutter. Ya know…girls just crashing 24/7 waiting for Charlie to wake them up: “Hey Betty! Ya got a call. Wake the fuck up! The driver’s downstairs. Shower? Get the fuck outta here. You don’t need no shower! Go!”
Charlie was a generous lout. I’ll give him that. Every time I went out there, he’d call the local pizza joint and order up eggplant parmagiana and veal parmagiana, and sausage and peppers and all that red lead stuff everybody loves. Or at least I love.
With the good came the not-so-good. Charlie had a few bad habits. Like he was always yanking his pistol out of his pocket and waving it around like some gangster or something. And I’d say “Charlie! Put that thing away before you shoot somebody! What the fuck is wrong with you? And whatcha got a gun for, anyway?” But Charlie was like that kid from your adolescence who would always find any excuse to whip out his unit. It didn’t mater what size it was. he was always whipping it out anyway.
Homey had another bad habit. Charlie was one of those statute of limitations guys…which in my world means he fucks you on a payment…disappears…and then comes back years later telling you to forget about the old bill. He wants to start anew. Ya see what I mean about balls of brass. The cracker thinks I’m gonna go for that shit. And ya know what? He’s right! Charlie’s already gotten away with it twice.
But this time it’s two strikes and you’re out. I know his game. And I know it’s lame. Fuck Charlie. His phone is probably tapped anyway. Dude was always into some shit. I’ll take a pass.