Charles is back on the scene with a fictional work of the shorter variety. This scene sets the tone for a longer work about a mentally unstable cat-burglar who, for whatever reason, doesn’t really steal anything.
“Big House on the Block” from His Insanity, the King by Charles
I was at the president’s house today. Not the house of the real president, mind you, with its pillared façade and glimmering marble and elliptical office in which to hide from the untamed world of dust-covered peons and belligerent peasantry. No, not that house. Such adventures will have to wait for another day.
Getting inside wasn’t difficult. The back fence was hopped as easily as a middle school track hurdle. A furry mutt came barking at me from the back deck, but I subdued him with a little playful banter, petting his coat with a gloved hand. On the rear door a sticker boasted of the impenetrability of the home security system—a thick-chested and mustached cartoon man against a blue shield backdrop appeared confident in his ability to protect the dwelling. An unlatched dormer window on the second floor seemed equally confident it its ability to be breached. For a foothold I spied a relish-green compost can easily rolled to the end of the overhanging soffit, and I scurried across the roof with the blood-hound, German shepherd mix looking on in amazement as his feline nemesis entered the stronghold.
I was in. I sat at Monsieur President’s desk for a while, tapping upon the worn mahogany as I mused over the contents of my forthcoming proclamation. I scribbled something witty on a napkin and left it in the pen drawer for later discovery. The walls of the study were dotted with tiny clusters of spring flowers painted several decades prior. A yellowed globe teetered along the bookshelf burdened with anthologies of encyclopedias and romance novels, the latter collection belonging to the first lady. As I erected my nightly-clad body to exit this flashback, the head of poor, old Bullwinkle threw me a vacant stare from between his broad antlers hovering above the threshold. The upstairs hall was a courtly sort of throughway from the study to the master bedroom. Portraits jutted from the ornate woodwork, curling into crown moldings at its edges. I trotted down the spiral stair case above which a jeweled chandelier was suspended like some crystalline death trap. On my way out, I fixed a peach still-life that hung ajar and walked out of the front door, whistling.