"A boy has never wept...nor dashed a thousand kin. You can play jacks, and girls do that with a softball bat and do tricks with it too. Oh, Oh, dog Biscuit, and when he is happy he doesn't get snappy."  

~ The Dying Declaration of Dutch Schultz

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I make decent time up the turnpike and hit the state line a little ahead of the hour it normally takes me. Only to come to a grinding halt, in order to get stuck sitting in the stoppage through the Stateline Inspection Station. We've had our car searched a couple of times coming across the border on various trips over the years. I've always assumed that the border gaurds either know trouble when they see it. Or that somehow they know that I am related to Chuckie, and therefore they should search our car just in case? Either way it's always an unnecessary pain in the ass waste of time.

Of course, I don't have anything bad in the car besides an old box of swimmie-diapers in the trunk. The swimmie-diapers that Gracie stopped using two summers back. What can I say, other than swimmy diapers make the best clean-up wipes for drunken buddies, who sometimes throw up in my car after victory bonfires?

So about a half an hour later of inching my way up the long line of cars, I finally roll up to the little troll toll booth. Where I am greeted by a less than caring member of the Red state border patrol service. Of course, he ignores me for a minute, as he slowly taps in my license plate number into his magic crime-fighting computer. Which may or may not decide for him, whether or not he should leave the safety of his bulletproof booth and get some justice for Jesus. Then he and his fellow minions of the state inspection service can rip apart our crappy car and seize all those highly suspicious swimmie-diapers stashed in the back.

"Purpose of your visit to our great state today?" The bored inspector inquires blandly from behind his tiny bulletproof booth window hole.

"Stopping by to see some old family before the holiday rush." I reply back in kind.

Oh, and maybe help turn someone into chum? Hard to say at this point really, the message was a little vague as to the favor being called in on me? So I am just going to have to go with stopping by and not sticking around for shark week?

"Anything to declare?" He drones on to his next question.

"No, sir," I shrug him off.

"No firearms, fruits or vegetables?" He pushes his luck a little.

"No, sir," I reply evenly.

"You should know that this great state has a strict zero-tolerance drug possession policy. So unlike that liberal cesspool of state you just left, we do not recognize medical marijuana as a doctor prescribed drug. But rather as a schedule one felony narcotic." He drones out off his pre-prepared interrogation script, with all the feeling of a dude doing a dead-end job he hates only a little less than living in poverty.

"So if you have such cannabis contraband, you should immediately pull around to the disposal area before crossing into this state." He waves over to the shadiest looking rest stop ever. "Dispose of any and all contraband in the appropriately marked contraband containers, before getting cited and possibly arrested." 

"I play football, so no drugs, legal or otherwise?" I thumb the football jersey I am wearing to assure him of my clean blood. He seems pretty unimpressed with this display of sportsmanship and could clearly care less about the defensive captains "DC" on the arm of my jersey.  

"Okay whatever, welcome to hell and have a great day." The bored border guy sighs and waves me ever onwards towards my date with destiny.

"You too dude." I nod and wave him away.

Once past the bored Border Patrol, I slowly easy out of the inspection lane and onto the Old River Bridge. When I am over the bridge and safely out of sight of the Stateline, I hit send on the Rule # 5 text, that I have been saving for the last half an hour of lagging in line. 

JAK: Just crossed the border, on my way to you now. Some traffic, so maybe another half an hour give or take? 

It isn't but ten seconds flat before I get a message right back. 

UCK:  S-Y-S 🙃🙃🙃

So S-Y-S again, huh? I eye the way too fast reply. 

"What the hell is his crazy clown ass up too now?" I ask the wind the unanswerable question. 

As I have zero clue what is going on with this clown, other than he is really intent on this S-Y-S shit. So I try to put that concern aside and focus on the drive, as I head up into the rolling hills overlooking the river.

Chances are most people probably think a criminal kingpin like my Uncle Chuckie should live in the back room of some rathole bar he owns "off-book". Or maybe in an old industrial loft that's been converted into a fortress? Chock full of guns and guys, hanging around playing poker, just waiting to murder someone for fun? You know, the kind of place that he could feel the pulse of the streets through his fingers, in order to tell what direction any ill-wind was shifting? Sorry to say, but so not true, that's the romanticized bullshit from the mafia movies about how criminals live their lives.

Truth is, Chuckie lives in a big seven-bedroom-three-car-garage McMansion at the ass-end of a cul-de-sac in a pretty nice gated community. With some nice neighbors, who don't know a true thing about him. Hell, Chuckie's neighbors probably think he is a great guy, who commutes to work and just likes to do a little hunting and fishing on the weekends? Little do they know they are living right next door to probably one of the most dangerous psychopaths in a thousand-mile radius. Not counting the psychiatric penitentiary upstate ...and even then that's a toss-up? But that's another one of those strange things about psychopaths, they can almost look normal, if you don't know what they really are.

Rule # 4 ~ Psychopaths can fake being real people extremely well.

[Psychopaths are not really people per se, they are more like a facsimile or a simulacra, pretending to be real person. So if you don't know exactly what kind of monster you're looking at, they can almost seem human to you. But if you do know, or even suspect what they really are? It's like Muhammad Ali said: "If you even dream you messed with me ...you better wake up and apologize." Because psychopaths do not like it when real people think "bad thoughts" about them. Case in point, Chuckies bad habit of turning people into chum for fun.] 

To be honest, I don't know for sure if Chuckie has ever been formally diagnosed as a psychopath. But trust me on this, the first time I read the definition of a psychopath? I knew exactly what that was and what it looked like in person. 

"Psy·cho·path (sīkəˌpaTH) noun ~ 
Psychopathy is a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviors, combined with abnormal and often violent social behavior. Psychopaths traditionally are bold, disinhibited, and egotistical traits marked by a decided lack of conscience empathy and remorse, regarding how their actions affect others." 

Which is seriously scary as hell in Chuckie's case, because the guy is literally built like a brick shit house. Which is to say that he is one very big badass dude, at six feet even and about two hundred thirty pounds of pure mean Irish muscle. Like everything else in Chuckie's crazy life, he is a man of extremes. So if a little is good for you, a lot must be better? So the crazy bastard works out qith weights religiously ...or psychotically, either one will do.

Legally my Uncle Chuckie's birth name is Charles Xavier Killian. So you'd like to think he would have a cool criminal kingpin name like "Professor X" from the X-Men, or something equally as badass? Naw not on all that noise, cause Professor X would be way too normal for Chuckie. So depending on who you talk to, his street name is either "Chuckie Cheese", as in the fat rat bastard who eats everything? Or Chuckles the Killer Clown, which probably a lot more accurate. Not that anyone in their right mind would ever say that name to his face, not with any expectation to keep on breathing anyways. Either way, no matter who you talk to Chuckie is an evil-mean bastard, with a penchant for extream violence when he doesn't get what he wants. 

By all accounts, Chuckie was a mean little bastard of a kid, who somehow managed to turn out to be an even eviler adult. So suffice to say, he is not some man of the people, Robin Hood type criminal kingpin. Oh no, Chuckie is the other kind of criminal, a pure psychopath who would stab his own mother in the eye with an ice pick for fifty bucks. Twenty if she owed him money and was a day late on the interest. Because that is what Chuckie is really good at ...collecting for the Irish mob. 

Yeah, believe it or not, there is actually an old Irish mob still lingering around where we live. Which is affectionately known as the Shamrock Criminal Syndicate. But unlike say your more traditional Godfather kind of classy criminal mafia, the Shamrock's are the old school Irish stupid shit crew of crime. On the street level, they are basically a bunch of drugged-out drunken Irish assholes randomly roaming around committing crimes. Like robbing, stealing, thieving and dealing, for no other reason than because they can. But above the street level is another kind of monster that lurks in the shadows, just waiting for someone to screw up and break one of the unwritten criminal codes of conduct. The Green Kings of Crime, who take no shit from anyone and take taxes from everyone.

As far as I understand it, the real money-making machine of the Shamrock Syndicate is more like a really unsophisticated Irish banking organization, loosely based around bars and betting. Nothing too fancy, nothing too complicated ...just a bunch of old Irish assholes hanging out in neighborhood bars. Who's criminal career seems to consist of cooking the bar books, taking bets, lending money, and of course beating the shit out of people for "looking wrong". So if you don't understand the concept of "looking wrong"? I suggest you don't drink in old Irish neighborhood bars, to get a taste of the local flavor. Cause the local flavor they are serving up, is most definitely going to be your blood on the floor for "looking all kinds of wrong".

So that's what Chuckie does to make a buck, he collects money on anybody who is stupid enough to borrow from the Syndicate. What's even crazier is that this guy doesn't even like money. He doesn't like making it, or saving it or even spending it? All he likes to do is just lend it to losers. But that's just what he likes to do, because what he really loves to do...and I mean he LOVES it. Is to personally hunt down deadbeats that don't pay their debt plus interest, and beat the living dog shit of them.

The thrill of the hunt is like his big thing. I suppose you might even call it his elan vital and raison d'être in life? Because Chuckie lives for hunting down people that fail to pay what they owe on time and hurt them. Or even better try to run away from their debts. Because then he can drag them back to hell, and then lord it over them and break them. Squeeze them dry until they can't take it anymore and kill themselves, just to end their suffering. 

What's even crazier to me, is that he will tell you all this like literally right to your face. Which sounds a little something like this:  "Because for 10 % a month, at whatever you are dumb enough to borrow ...this is gonna be like the best ride ever! Personally, I hope you lag on paying? Cause then I'm gonna talk all kinds of shit on you. Tell your mother, your father, your kids, their friends, your neighbors, and even your priest that you're a deadbeat piece of shit. I am gonna tell everyone under the sun that you owe me and I am coming to collect. And after that's done, then I'm really gonna start having some fun. Because then I will hunt you down and hurt you. I will pray every day that you fuck this up and try run chum. So that I can come find you and turn your life into chum."

That's another one of the many things about Chuckie that is seriously scary, at least to me anyways. He calls everyone else "Chum" ...but not like chum as in chummy or friendly. Chum as in the bloody slop of fish guts you pour into the ocean to attract sharks for feeding time. Yeah, another thing about Chuckie is that he just loves shark week on the National Geographic Channel. I think more than anything its professional courtesy really? Because just like a shark Chuckie is a cold-blooded predatory creature, who is always on the move looking for the next kill.

Truthfully, I am not totally sure Chuckie even touches real money anymore? Probably because there isn't anyone left alive that is still stupid enough to borrow from him personally? So now he just sits around and waits to get a call from the guy, who knows the guy, who has money owed to them. Then Chuckie buys that guy's debt marker, then he goes out and does what he does for fun.

Like hypothetically let's say you borrow from Peter to pay Paul? But then you hit a little rough patch and have to lag Peter on his payment? Peter gets pissed off and sells your soul to Satan ...plus ten percent per week. Satan rejoices in your stupidity, because this is gonna be the best ride ever! Chum ...chum ...chum!

So as far as I know, Chuckie spends most of his time these days going to various strip clubs for all you can eat breakfast buffets. Just watching sports channels and strippers, to keep track of the losers on both sides of the stage. At least that's what he told me, back when I was thirteen and still curious about these sorts of things. But in the last couple of years since my father bailed on us, and I've gotten to know Chuckie a little bit better? Yeah, I stopped asking those kinds of stupid questions.

Partly because I am afraid of the answers will get ...and partly because I am afraid of knowing too much of his insane truth. Because some things are just really not good to know too much about. And the deeply insane truths of a psychopath are definitely on the top of that "do-not-need-to-know" list. Those are the kind of things that could get you turned into chum for the wrong reason. My only saving grace is that I am blood and that matters to Chuckie big time.

One of the things that most people don't understand about psychopaths is that they tend to seriously fixate on strange things very easily. In Chuckie's case, for whatever reason, he was fixated on us being a happy family ...without him? Yeah, it took me a minute to understand how this worked in his weird wack-ass world, until I finally broke it down into crazy baby steps. 

The fact is that me and Gracie are Chuckie's only surviving family left alive, so somehow it became very important to him that we were happy. I think it's imperative to him on some crazy karmic level, that we are happy. Like just as long as we smile at Christmas and wish him a lucky New Year, then somehow all the bad karma he has accumulated in his life will magically be balanced out? That way he could go out into the world and do all the really awful things that he does to other people, without blinking twice.

So you'd think that Chuckie would come around and try to intrude in our lives a lot, but the opposite is true. I think he understands on some level that he is a very dangerous guy to be around. So he doesn't come around much, outside of a few holidays and birthdays. When he'll swing by the house with some expensive presents and his second-best serial killer smile. He hangs out for a minute, watches us open our presents, then maybe grabs a plate of food and goes without a goodbye. 

Although I admit, one of the funny things about these holiday drive-bys is his yearly brush with death at the hands of my kid sister. Another one of his many issues is that Chuckie does not like to be touched in any way. So no handshakes, no pats on the back ...and holy hell forbid, no hugs. The only person he ever allows to hug him even a little is my sister Gracie, but only because she is too young to know any better. Gracie always says that "Uncle Chuckles" looks like a super sad clown and needs a "super-duper huge holiday hug" to make him happy. 

To be honest, watching Gracie give Chuckie his huge Christmas hug every year is one of my holiday highlights. It's like watching someone with a severe bee allergy react to having killer bees crawling all over him. And if he moves even the smallest muscle, he will get stung and die a horrible death. But every year, Chuckie just stiffly suffers the living nightmare that is his super-huge-happy-holiday-hug-from-hell. After which he looks all kinds of relieved when it's over. Like he narrowly escaped death, and can't wait to get the hell away, go home burn his uniform Celtics tracksuit. Then take a long Silkwood shower, to chemically wash off all the creepy kid germs eating away at what's left of his brain away. 

But I thank him from the bottom of my heart for that torturous two minutes and thirty seconds of huge holiday hug that he bears every year. Because it makes Gracie happy, and after all, that's what's really important here. 

Yeah, Chuckie is a crazy trip and a total psycho in my opinion. But he's our psychopath now, so I try to forgive him his insane idiosyncrasies, of which he has way too many to count. And of course, I do my absolute best to stick to the insane rules, so I don't end up becoming chum too. And of all the rules to remember, the first is the worst.

Rule #1 ~ You can never trust a psychopath under any circumstances, because they will never trust you.  

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~ Author's Notes ~

This chapter is dedicated to TheEuphoricWriter who is a wonderful writer and a very cool girl in my humble opine. So if you're looking for a cool badboy story drop in and check out? Try her latest at https://www.wattpad.com/story/108214725-carlton