Charlie knew a man makes his own rules to make his way.
Charlie laughed when he first heard B.B. King sing, “Nobody Loves Me but My Mama (And She Could Be Jivin’ Too).” Charlie knew that tune quite well. His mother, Kathleen, fifteen when she conceived him, traded temporary custody for a beer one night at a bar when he was only two, unlike Davy Crockett, who killed him a b’ar when he was only two.
She probably figured the waitress would return him in a couple of days. Kathleen did try hard later, to be fuckin’ fair about it, after she did five years for robbery.
Charlie married his wife when she was fifteen. Literary theorists would call that mimesis. It was also a Kentucky thing.
Like most short, scrawny, and intelligent boys who don’t have parents to get them out of trouble, Charlie got raped, a lot, at the juvie prison where he was sent for jackin’ a car. Getting raped really pissed him off, especially when the screws were directing the show. Charlie knew he was a lot smarter than the baboons terrorizing him and a lot hipper than the counselors who encouraged him to be a good boy but would do nothing about the raping. Gutless, tiresome pukes, all of them.
Charlie had the natural gift with women. Those who have it know how to use it, but no one can teach it. It’s something you’re born with, but you can develop it further by paying intense attention to a woman who’s not used to that, and by not wasting time on bro shit like sports. It can help you become a salesman (if you settle), an evangelist, a politician, a guru, or a pimp. But I repeat myself.
He never went to business school, but he did adopt the B school maxim, “Fuck them before they fuck you.” Charlie wanted never to be fucked again or ever fucked over. Charlie would be the fuck-er.
Charlie learned about pecking orders in prison. Dominate, be dominated, or keep a magically low profile. Strength in numbers, hang with your race. Get rid of rivals for power.
Charlie knew music. He had learned guitar in lockup. When he met Dennis Wilson, he got himself an in with the Beach Boys and their friends. Dennis liked his music. Charlie wrote “Cease to Exist” as a healing prescription for the Wilson brothers when they were feuding. The lyrics include:
Submission is a gift
Go on, give it to your brother
Love and understandin’
is for one another.
The Beach Boys produced a different version and put it out as “Never Learn Not to Love” without crediting Charlie. Fuckin’ typical. The “submission is a gift” theme would reappear down the line.
Dennis and other music guys really dug the harem. Young, long-haired, and well-trained. Susie was freaky and so was Squeaky. Freaky Squeaky. Patty was eager and tripped out by the male attention and the sex, sex, sex she had never experienced. Leslie was gorgeous—even better, doped up and gorgeous. There were others, teens and twenties, all white, of course.
Charlie knew that LSD is the key to enlightenment and to getting chicks more open to sorority and suggestion. Rituals are important too, like dancing—a square dance but with weed, acid, and sex. That is a bonding, euphoric experience. An army of lovers can’t lose. Change partners! Follow and swing! Dosie dough! Hand in hand! Take the new guy into a bedroom!
Charlie knew he got the Beatles better than anyone. He listened a lot when he was high, and he was high a lot. The Beatles were English but somehow, they could see the coming helter-skelter. Black on White, man. The Blacks were tougher and wilder, and the white pussies would go down. But blacks couldn’t run things and that’s where a genius like Charlie would come in. Cuz Charlie had been born on the bottom and kept there for a while but like the Beatles he knew
When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
And I stop, and I turn and I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again
Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Oh, yeah, he’d see you again.
In exchange for all the pussy Charlie got Dennis to hook him up with music producers like nepo baby Terry Melcher (Doris Day’s kid—ah, Los Angeles! Hollywood!). Melcher had enjoyed a life with just a few more opportunities than Charlie. Melcher didn’t go for Charlie’s music even with the girls singin’ so angelic-like, and even though he got to taste some of the underage chicken Charlie provided. This really pissed Charlie off—a lot. Did this punk know who he was disrespecting?
When Charlie finally had a crew that would follow him to hell, even to Bakersfield, he sent them to Terry’s house. But Terry didn’t live there anymore. Some say Charlie knew that and wanted to throw a scare into Terry to get him a little more cooperative with the music production. Jesus, Terry, wake the fuck up! Anyway, some other rich piggies lived there. Whatever.
Charlie knew he had an audience now. And the girls x’d their foreheads! How many pimps could get his girls to do that? Charlie was clearly the GOAT pimp.
Mass murder is a good career move. Just look at all the presidents who get parades for killing thousands, millions even. People were so fuckin’ stupid it made Charlie’s head hurt. A lot.
Squeakie was in charge now cuz she was the smart one and tough and a great fuck. He wouldn’t have that anymore but still she was his girl and so loyal. How loyal? Would she kill a president for him? Yup. She tried to shoot blockhead Ford. She didn’t put one in the chamber because she really wasn’t a violent person, but she got a lot of publicity for “Save the Trees” and for Charlie.
When Prince came along Charlie knew he had been Prince before Prince. He reminded everyone in the joint and they couldn’t deny him.
