In Memory of Paul Duchene

Honestly ... we would've had a big roast for you alive; there was no need for all of the shenanigans.

How many times have I told you not to do your own stunts?

And here we are, telling stories about you.

You were all about the stories.

I don't know how many times I heard that tale about you pushing the car off of the white cliffs of Dover (about 19,684). That story was a bike with just enough air in the tires to go two laps around the village (FYI), but ... I'd give anything to hear it one more time.

Because I'm also storykind, it was fitting to give you one of mine. I have a lot of great stories, but a couple of real barn-burners ... the ones you tell only your Most Magnificent and Worthy.

So I told you the first one, but I had NO idea that your magnificent and worthy self was the RGBE (Royal Gossip of the British Empire) and you'd enthusiastically spread it across the damn globe faster than cheap meth.

F*cks sake.

Never got a chance to tell you the other one. The best things in life take time and we were running out of that apparently.

I'll just hold onto that one, shall I?

For, if you're right, and a smattering of us miscreants have traveled together before and will travel together again, well ... then I'll see you back at the appointed time and place (as teenage delinquents busted for smoking and trying on the fancy vestments in a church basement).

Until then, I'll miss you ... and I'll be grateful to and for you.

And I'll be on watch for anything paranormal, so stay out of the electrical and the plumbing, you old tinkerer.

Dear You.

Mind how you go.