“You bleed ink,” Daddy would always say.
They called me “Lil Charlie,” meaning I was just like him. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was fine by me because he was one cool motherfucker.
“Buckle up,” he’d howl about an assignment that might be especially deep and wide. A mad dog renegade ink slinger and his daughter, too young to be mixing his screwdrivers, hanging out with mass murderers, and dodging errant lawmen, we made a hell of a duo.
Now he’s gone, off on the big adventure, and I’m telling you, “Buckle up,” because we’re about to go on a long and mad haul. I’ve got some things to tell you.
