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Charles J. Clark II -- also known as "Buster" -- died this morning. He'd been released from the VA on Wednesday since they needed the beds for vets suffering combat-related illnesses, as opposed to illnesses resulting from a lifetime of poor decisions.

He looked like death warmed over then, and his breathing was laboured while he struggled with his portable oxygen unit. He could manage about one word per hit of oxygen, so the conversation went like this:

[inhale]

. . . gawdam . . .

[inhale]

. . . cack . . .

[inhale]

. . . sukkin . . .

[inhale]

. . . gasket . . .

[inhale]

Fukk!

[inhale]

. . . want this . . .

[inhale]

. . . gawdam . . .

[inhale]

. . . cack sukkin . . .

[inhale]

. . . gasket . . .

[inhale]

. . . fukkin . . .

[inhale]

. . . tightened.

(Apparently he'd been working with a speech therapist, who was trying to get him to cut down on the cussing, since it was, literally, a waste of breath. I don't think they got very far; Charlie relished using the word cocksucker almost as much as he loved his Natural Ice.)

He picked up a few things here at his trailer, then went to spend a few nights in Oro Valley with an old friend who was lonely and had a warm couch for him to sleep on.This morning, they were getting ready to head over to an apartment Charlie'd lined up, but he didn't make it to the car: he keeled over on her front porch, and he was gone before she could reach him.

Thank you to everyone who made his last year one of his better ones. I never told him exactly how all those presents made it to his doorstep last Christmas, but he never stopped talking about it.