December 5th, 1886
Finally the boy seems to have worn himself out, and given up his sobbing. Now at least I have time to think in peace. He's eating, which is good, and it becomes apparent he will not die of a broken heart like I worried he might, having been raised so delicately under my soft-headed fool of a son.
And yet he disregards my summons?
In agitation I assaulted his chamber and demanded to know, in no short terms, why he felt it fitting to ignore me.
The boy looked up, eyes wide as a newborn rabbit's. I realized then how pale he'd grown since arriving. Eating, but not eating well, I fear. I'll have to have Crowe bolster his diet with more red meats. There is an unspoken craving for iron in the sallow tone of his complexion.
In our following conversation, the boy revealed two things to me. Information that I pocketed, and intend to make use of before long. He explained to me he felt a deep and heartsick melancholy for his parents' homestead, that even amidst the luxurious trappings of Belledouleur he felt he would never be happy again.
I demanded to know if that was the reason he felt it right to be so insolent and ignore my order to attend my company: it appears this lad is like a neglected dog that doesn't even recognize its own name! Why he doesn't respond to "Charles," "Chaz," or even the loathsomely informal "Huck" that some of that regal name chose to go by.
Head hanging, the boy explained that his parents never called him such; not even "Montgomery."
"My name is Happy," he explained sadly.
Once again my gorge rose at the utter sacchariferous habits of my errant son. "Happy." That is not a name for a man, or even a good horse. Some broken down nag, perhaps, or a mongrel cur kept only for entertainment? Then I could see using that name. But for a grandson of mine, a Burns no less? No. That would never do.
I folded my hands over my cane and glared down at him.
"From henceforth, you will never be 'Happy,' again," I intoned.
I could've sworn a tear started to leak from beneath his closed lids. "I feel like I'll never be happy again," he confessed. Perhaps he misjudged my words, but I ignored that.
This encounter was proving the most perfect alignment of events.
I rapped the foot of my cane on the floor to get his attention. "Exactly!" I exclaimed. "And that is something to celebrate! You'll be better than 'Happy' my boy. You will be rich, powerful… and feared! Believe me when I say, fear is like respect, but far better: for respect can be lost, but fear can always be maintained. In it, the power lies!"
I stood to my full height, and beckoned him rise from the bed where he sat like a broken toy.
"You are Charles Montgomery Burns, heir to greatness! You will never have to settle for being 'Happy' again. Say it with me: 'I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be 'Happy' again.'"
The boy parroted my words, but his voice was weak, lacked conviction. I clasped both hands over the head of my cane.
"Aye, words, lad. But again, this time force!"
I repeated the phrase, tapping my cane in cadence to each word. They came so naturally to a steady beat. Metering rhythm, I gestured to the boy: "Speak!"
The heady beat was hypnotic. I could see it working against his resolve. "I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again."
"Louder!" I all but screamed, engloried in the boy's repetition. I threw back my head and repeated the words with him. His voice rose in strength and volume, and I matched pitch, our words perfectly in time to the tempo I'd so carefully set. I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again! I am Charles Montgomery Burns, I'll never be Happy again!
I swear the very timbers of the roof trembled as if in fear of the potency behind our chant. He was yelling alone now, with a fervent zeal bordering on religious enthusiasm, the chant rolling naturally from his mouth. I would not doubt the sharecroppers in my fields could hear the passion of his words.
"Aye, that's the spirit, my boy!" I encouraged, raising a fist to the air. "Let it be known who you truly are!"
His voice was strained at ragged from exertion. Lest I overwork him, I waved my hand, cutting him off mid-cry. "Ah then, there's enough young fellow," I said gently. I reached into my pocket and withdrew a single coin, a silver one-dollar Morgan. I twirled it across my fingers, delighting in the way the boy's eyes latched on to it with the intent of a hunting raptor.
It stands to reason this is a larger amount of money than the lad has ever seen at one time. I flipped it in the air, and with skill at prestidigitation, made it appear to vanish, only to open my fist before his face, and present it. "Minted in our very own New Orleans, young Charles," I told him as I moved it slowly to- and fro-.
"I daresay it belongs in your hands now, not mine."
I took his right wrist, flipping his hand palm up, and deposited the Morgan into his outstretched digits. I curled his fingers around coin, still warm from its place at my hip pocket.
"For me, grandfather?" he asked, eyes blue pools of amazement.
It was all I could do not to pat myself on the back. "Yes, my boy, for you. The fervor and vigor you displayed ere moments ago pleases me. I think this is ample way to express my gratitude to you then. Keep it." I made to depart before he could even speak. I had no intentions of belaboring a conversation. "Remember that there are far more where that came from, but don't let me catch you reaching your hand out. Begging is something I don't even tolerate from the dogs. I shall guide and teach you, young Charles, governing your education as I see fit. Do well, and you shall be rewarded. Displease me, and I shall see you don't repeat the mistake. Do we have an understanding, my boy?"
He nodded, holding the coin aloft reverently.
"Good," I said, nodding magnanimously. "You are a Burns, Charles. Whatever backwater life your father subjected you to, it's done and gone. Welcome, my dear Charles, to the first day of your real life."
With that, I stepped out, shutting his door behind me. Let that seed grow. Let him hold that coin and get a taste of it. I know in short order he'll crave more. Happy indeed. I'll be sure to extinguish such foolery of his underprivileged past; of this I have no doubt.
- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. December 5th. 1886