1.1 - My Asshole Friend

PART ONE

Chuck is a self proclaimed master of kung fu.

He also claims to have invented his own style that he has so ridiculously dubbed Chuck Fu. He says it’s the most spiritual style of martial arts ever conceived. Here’s the thing; Chuck took all of about three weeks worth of lessons at the local community college before… well… before he couldn't anymore.

So when I find myself in the middle of a mess like the one I’m in right now, stuck in a biker bar surrounded by four rather husky leather clad grizzly bear m'fers dead set on making me their next meal… Chuck is absolutely no fucking help whatsoever.

You see; while it may have been my overly inquisitive nature that began to inflame their anger, it was Chuck’s desire to “spook these shitheads” that really got ‘em hot under the spike studded choker.

“let’s break some shit and see if it triggers their flight reflex”

It didn’t.

“ok… plan b. let’s just beat the info we need right out of their chopper riding asses!”

We didn’t.

The only thing we are about to accomplish is me taking a fifteen minute ass whupp'n. At some point, they’re going to throw me through a plate glass window and into the street. I will sustain several lacerations to my forearms, head, and ego. Nothing major mind you, except for the ego part. I’m then going to limp back around the block and into my '92 Camry and drive about thirty-five minutes to the only bar that never asks me why I’m bruised and bleeding, The Beer Haus. There they'll just pour me a beer, hand me a towel and tell me the Redbirds don’t play till around 6:30.

Chuck’s going to sit at the other end of the bar knowing the last thing I want to hear is his voice whispering in my head what order I should have attacked who and the timing of a well placed mule kick. What he’s also not going to tell me is any useful information about the missing girl we were actually there to find or why the bartender instructed them to beat me and toss me out on a first name basis when I was never even allowed to properly introduce myself.

Maybe the exchanging of that pleasantry would have avoided this whole mess.

Chuck also isn’t going to nurse any of the same injuries I incurred. He’ll just quietly sit down there at the end of the bar and wait for me to get a good drunk on before sauntering over and discussing what will be our next step.

His luck in avoiding serious (or otherwise) harm doesn’t come from his delusional mastery of any martial skill. No, while Chuck may be my best friend... he also happens to be a ghost. Has been for almost three years now. And for some reason I’m the only person alive lucky enough to be able to hear him, see him, or like him.

This was mostly the case even when he walked among the living.

So now knowing what you do about Chuck and skipping back to the four determined men surrounding me, understand the only words that enter my mind and exit my lips (creating what has to be the most baffling war cry these surly gentlemen have ever heard) is…

“Chuck, you’re an asshole”