Charlie Baker had chrome hair, vacuumed sealed pores, an all-American smile that screamed “I know a good deal when I see one(and that means fucking you to get it)” exuded from his cocksure step that you couldn’t imagine him having anything less than light beer in his blood and apple pie for a heart.

It wasn’t until he mentioned “The Old Country” that any confusion would ever arise. And if you didn’t stick around for his midnight ministrations, you wouldn’t check the ancient Sumerian that captivated the night.

There was never so fine a monster as Charlie Baker— and the thousandth life he now led in the land of excess and assholes.

He couldn’t be called a cruel and evil thing— for even the savvy steered clear of Charlie Baker once the sun crept low. If he were a classless cad he’d blame his history— long as it were. But you do it survive centuries by not adapting— and as he drove around town in a forest green jaguar, he kept an open mind to the changes ahead.

He missed the age of servant girls and dark shadows between pillars.

He missed the rattle of loosened chains falling to a dead thud on hot sand.

The first smoke filled crack of a gun. The dragon belch of a cannon.

The wildcat yowl of the first planes— Charlie Baker had been around for long enough to know all of what could not be predicted— and the languid pleasure of what could.

Turning into the hills, he ran a ready hand down the empty seat beside him. Still a stir after all this time— nothing like the hunt.