Well Hello again!

Hi friends. this space has gone unused for quite some time due to a string of bad luck, incidents and prior general lazyness Im here to apologize for that and come back and dust off the ol cob webs. Below is a fictional tale. Its serious. Definitely most serious thing Ive ever written. Dont worry. the Hillarity will ensue again. *authors note* Im typing on a computer without: t, g, ’, and "

With that being said, Im back guys. Back on your screens and soon your hearts and heads and possible anuses(ani?) Ahem, I digress. Enjoy and hopefully theres more where this came from. Or more like my star wars poop blo. People enerally enjoy poop humor more. I do.

Cheers: Will Kahn


Charlie Wade was a boxer. Charlie Wade was an inmate. Charlie Wade was, to put it bluntly, a little crazy.

Charlie Wade was a member of a small suburban town known as Goshen, New York. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else. His humble abode is a nice but small little house on West Main Street. Not your average house though, and that’s because Charlie Wade isn’t your average guy. He surrounded himself in white: White clothes, white tennis balls, white walls, and a white house. He painted his yard white. He even painted his blacktop driveway white. His life consisted of working out and going about what, to the average person, seems like everyday activities. These asinine everyday activities didn’t suppress the harsh memories floating around inside of Charlie’s mind on a daily basis, however. And every time he closed his eyes he saw the battered face of the man he brutally murdered. And he had to deal with it.

Charlie Wade grew up in the mean streets of Georgia with five brothers and sisters. The youngest of the Wade children, he was constantly chided for being the youngest and therefore, littlest. On top of the constant abuse from his siblings were the daily beatings from his father. That was of course, until he reached the ripe age of 18. Dealing with this abuse from siblings and classmates, Charlie Wade made it his mission to get the hell out of his broken household and whip himself into shape. Serious shape. He found a small place next to a gym and started lifting weights. Something was still missing though. He felt a fire inside of him that just lifting weights and working out couldn’t extinguish. That is, until he met Ken. Ken Mackel was the greatest boxing coach in Georgia and as soon as he laid eyes on the young Charlie he knew he had found his protégé, a potential heavyweight champion even. Ken took young Wade under his wing and within months he was in he ring.

For a little while, boxing extinguished the fire that burned bright inside of him. He fought, and won every fight for five years before that fateful day. He stepped in the ring against his greatest challenge yet, the best amateur fighter in the land, Alan Milloff. Alan hadn’t lost a fight either. It was Charlie Wade’s first real fight and the one that would change his life.
The fire inside young Charlie Wade burned brighter than it ever had that fateful night. He was on top of his game. Left, hook, right hook, It didn’t matter. He was landing everything with ease and by the end of the second round; Alan Miloff was staring face to face with the man that would end his undefeated streak, and eventually the man that would end his life.

The bell rang and Charlie Wade’s arm was about to be joyously hoisted in the air, a sign of victory. But that fire inside of Mr. Wade burned and raged on. He stood over the battered body of his opponent and punched, and punched and punched. His trusted friend and trainer Ken tried to stop him, as did all involved. But he wasn’t going to stop and could hear nothing except the white noise of the rage finally bubbling over inside of his head.

Alan Miloff was carried out of that arena in a body bag that night. Charlie Wade was carried out in handcuffs. He was tried and convicted of murder and spent the next 24 years of his young life in a Georgia State penitentiary.

Since that day, every time he saw red, the red of his boxing gloves, the red of the blood that he had shed and that of his rage, he went into one of his "spells". He became a bit of a recluse, stewing in his thoughts and his past. And he worked out the only thing to keep his mind off his horrendous past of being incarcerated and, quite frankly, being a murderer.

Charlie Wade went on with his life though, if you could call it that. He lifted his painted white barbells, squeezed his tennis balls (also painted white) and swept his painted white dirt until he could no longer see white. And he’d paint it again. He acquired the name "the dirt sweeper" among the townsfolk who, despite the fact they didn’t know him, passed judgment on him quite easily. Charlie Wade was alone and broken. He had no family anymore and even if he did would he want to see them? He was out of jail but he was still in his own personal hell. His own prison. Alone with his memories, his rage, his hatred for his family and father, and his demons.

Headline. Boxing match comes to Middletown fair grounds: a gala event. The town was turned upside down. It’s quite the rarity to see an event of his magnitude in a neighboring town of tiny little Goshen. The whole community was excited. Network affiliates from New York City were coming. Abuzz is the only word to describe the mood surrounding the event. Tickets sold out instantly the fight was surely going to be a sight.

There was one person who wasn’t excited His name was Charlie Wade. Even thinking about boxing brought back the visions of the chipped bone in his boxing gloves and the events of that horrifying night. And he thought of his father and how the root of his aggression that manifested that night was really the abuse he took from him.

Fight night. Charlie Wade is watching it on his black and white 12inch television set that he acquired while on a routine garbage picking excursion. Sitting by himself in his white room, white house.

Thoughts of angst and disgust creep through his brain. "Why am I doing this to myself? " He mutters in his thick southern drawl. The fight begins and, despite his better judgment he watches it from start to finish, wading in his own emotional stew. The local television station broadcasting the event signs off. White noise is that entire sill exists on the television screen. Charlie Wade looks blankly at the image of his own face staring back at him from the television set. He thinks of his father who beat him. The thinks of the man he took out that aggression on and finally killed as a direct result of his pent up anger and hatred. He takes out a picture of his father from his beaten in, old, painted white wallet and spits on it.

White noise in Charlie Wade’s head, a familiar white noise. A shotgun rings out. Charlie Wade hits the deck. Blood red mixed with stark white. Knock out.