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Anymore, the term hero is applied to virtually anyone who does something halfway decent for someone else. Whether it be a police officer who catches a doughnut in mid-air on its descent to the cigarette butt-laden ground outside the coffee shop or a sandwich artist who grabs a penny from the “take a penny, leave a penny” tin at the counter of a popular sub shop to round out a customer’s order, heroes walk the streets of every city and every town across the globe in larger numbers than any big name comic book brand. Thanks to television, whenever a newscaster proclaims that a certain day is required to “honor our heroes,” the world pauses for a moment to pat themselves and their neighbors on the back for a job well done. Cops, school teachers, firefighters, soldiers, Laundromat owners, politicians who haven’t been caught in a sex or money laundering scandal yet, children who share candy with their friends – it doesn’t matter. They’re all heroes – except babies (as they haven’t the capacity to move around or communicate well yet). And Charlie Munsen.
To say Charlie Munsen was a “Royal Ass-wipe” wasn’t a disservice or an insult to his character. Literally, he wiped the asses of royalty for a living. He was the attendant who spent 8 hour shifts during the week (and sometimes weekends) with a roll of toilet paper prepped and ready to ensure that the shit, most certainly, wouldn’t hit the fan. It would meet its mark in the royal commode (or “porcelain princess” as Prince Richard called it), and the bottoms of all who stepped foot in His Royal Majesty’s fresh chambers would remain nice and tidy.
Now, before those of you with a quick tongue condescendingly ask why Charlie chose this particular profession, and it most certainly is a profession, I’ll state quite clearly that young Charlie didn’t choose this job. He inherited it. His father passed down his employment after marrying into this line of work many decades ago. Charlie’s mother was the daughter of another Ass-wipe, but since women are too fair and dainty to be considered Ass-wipes, her first husband would be appointed to carry on the brave work of Charlie’s grandfather. It would have been a dishonor and a sign of disrespect to refuse such an appointment, and as family is more important than toiling labor, there was, obviously, only one possible option. Charlie accepted as his father had accepted decades before, and someday, Charlie’s son would gleefully step up to the plate to be an Ass-wipe.
Day after day, our non-hero fulfilled his duty, maintaining a pristine privy and immaculately pasty cheeks, be they saggy with age or firm with active youthfulness. He would often pass the days day-dreaming about adventures or listening to the royal family blabber on and on about their exploits, which typically consisted of watching programs on television. If it was young Master Dick utilizing the thunder box, then those exploits would often be comprised of how many tarts the prince was able to play “strawberry jam” with as he so enthusiastically called it.
When his shift ended, Charlie took two buses and a brisk walk away from the royal palace to the Flaming Bush Tavern, a dingy little bar with religious psalms and proverbs scrolled all over the walls in nice, neat calligraphy. He ordered the same drink night after night, and quelled his mind with the soothing embrace of a heavy-handed Russian Imperial Stout served right from the tapper. There was nothing quite like the drink, and only a few would barrel the young man over, sloshing him up enough to stumble on home and plop his chubby frame before a television with a sandwich in hand. Here, Charlie found himself drifting soundly off to the dream world, where he would perform another eight hour shift wiping the rectums of the denizens of this imaginary land. The poor lad had a bed in his one bedroom flat, but it never was touched. Layers of dust, two inches in thickness to be exact, covered the bed like a blanket of snow. Such was the sad state of affairs for the lonely non-hero.
Yet, there comes a moment in time in every person’s life where Fate stops playing her pinball machine in Heaven to pay individual humans a courtesy. She opens up the time clocks in these individuals’ lives, be they digital or otherwise, and with her slender index finger, Lady Chaos releases a faint spark of illumination that sends atoms in motion. Molecules begin to form and zip around faster than before. The present moment begins to churn like a turbulent ocean, and opportunity presents itself. In this, all non-heroes and heroes are equal, be they rich or poor, white or black, male or female. Fate cares not for shallow differences. She just likes rejuvenating dead or dying batteries for her own amusement, as she never quite knows how events sparked from this great illumination will play out.
This is the story of Charlie Munsen as I can best relate it. Similar to Lady Chaos, I am also a watcher from up above, gazing down from the cosmos as our Royal Ass-wipe of a man carries forth his legacy in the lavatories of Crystalline Palace, home of the Winchester Family.
