Prelude

For a few minutes, I was tempted to title this story, “Can You Only Live Twice?” but rejected it. There is a 007 series spy book by Ian Flemming named You Only Live Twice and a 1967 movie was made from it. John Barry wrote and Nancy Sinatra recorded the theme song by that name. The opening stanza lyrics are:

“You only live twice

Or so it seems

One life for yourself

And one for your dreams”

This story, my story, has nothing to do with any of that. Neither the book, movie, the song, nothing resembling themes, characters, plot, era, nor culture. Not one secret agent do I offer. The only thing in common is from the song, the charming phrase used as my title:

“One for your dreams”

Double lives. Secret lives. Change of life. A new life. A new world. A fresh beginning. There are many more phrases like these. Each indicates a not uncommon desire for a second chance to get it right. Some seek simultaneous chances hoping one will be successful. My origin was a bad start. You can’t imagine a more spoiled rotten mean little kid than I was. My story has a villain, but no heroes. I am the villain. No matter how I spin it or excuse myself, I’ll never come out remotely heroic. No one does. I’m the predator, and the rest of the story’s cast of characters portray my victims and their victimhood. You won’t learn much about them. Character development will be too skimpy and stereotyped to know them well. Even though they were half-siblings I never did know them well, so can’t provide you with many details. Minute details of their horrifying ends will be gruesomely, lovingly described.

Shall I give you an example to whet your appetite? Hint, I take and keep trophies from my victims.

Do any of you know what Charles Lindberg accomplished after his 1927 solo flight in Spirit of St. Louis across the Atlantic? I’ll tell you, he perfected a functional perfusion pump. Yay! Isn’t science wonderful? You can search about Lindberg’s perfusion pump on the Internet. What is a perfusion pump? It’s a device for maintaining oxygenated artificial blood to supply and keep an organ alive despite being separated from the body. I have further improved upon his basic model and build them myself. Some people enjoy watering their house plants daily or feeding their aquarium fish. A delight for me is the few minutes per day devoted to servicing my trophy collection individually housed in separate glass perfusion pumps.

Mom gave me the princely name Charles, intending and succeeding in raising me in princely affluence. Anything I wanted, I got.

My dad’s attitude towards me, well, let me say of the hundreds of sons and daughters my father sired, I was his least favorite offspring. I followed closely in his footprints but he never seemed to notice me tripping at his heels. It was his pecker tracks I followed mostly. He liked deflowering virgins, especially his daughters. He continued to sire fresh replacements to later deflower throughout his long life. Once he had a girl, she no longer interested him. On to the next virgin, usually a young daughter. I followed close behind, comforting and enjoying my no longer innocent half-sisters’ charms.

While Charles Lindberg and I may share a first name, I don’t use the name, preferring the nickname my dad gave me when he saw me the first time. My name is Chuck and I exist to fuck.

That’s my primary ambition but add to that collecting trophies and reducing my competition. It won’t matter much if I’m the least favored of dad’s children, if I’m the only surviving male. I’m certain to inherit the bulk of his estate if I’m his only remaining son.

Hope this tale isn’t too macabre. Feedback, please, before I continue it.

Yob