Mar. 8th, 2011

“You say you are on a drug. A drug called ‘Charlie Sheen’.” The man’s suit was very well tailored. So were the suits of the men standing behind him. The men wearing them were very large. Charlie licked his lips.

“Abso-fucking-lutely I am,” he replied. “I am a death-wagon bomber pilot hopped up on goofballs made of ME. I am strafing the savages. I am shelling the plants and the toadies and the tail-riders. In approximately nine-point-nine seconds my payload of AWESOME will go off on my enemies like a daisy-cutter decapitating south-east Asian children. Being on me is like being on a rabid stallion made entirely of futuristic rocket ships all aimed at the heart of the sun, and there’s a ticking sound coming out of nowhere.”

The sitting man made a minute gesture with one hand. The old guy with the white coat stepped forward and shone a penlight into Charlie’s eyes. “Mm-hmm,” he said. His accent was unplaceable. “He’s definitely on something. A psychotropic of some sort, there can be no doubt. But as to its source…” The sitting guy took a drag off his cigarette. It was black and imported.

“But the bloodwork is clean?” he asked.

“None of the usual screens revealed anything,” said white-coat.

“Of course you won’t find anything,” said Charlie, his arms folded. “I’m the ninja cowboy. I’m the shadow of the ghost of a demon cat-burglar. You’re not going to turn my victorious ass up on a swab. You don’t culture me in a goddamn petri dish. Western Civilization has fumbled in the dark for a hundred generations trying to find Charlie Fucking Sheen, and when you stumble onto me there’s only one thing you can do: hold on, and enjoy the ride.”

“Oh, I quite agree, Mister Sheen,” said the man with the very nice suit, sitting back in his chair. “We’re going to enjoy every minute of you that we can. You are, sir, a consummate entertainer.”

He smiled thinly. “And with just a little work,” he added, “we can have you packaged for public consumption.”

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September 2012

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