By: Jacob Hales

I have this friend who has an issue, or at least he used to. His name is Charles, Charles Dreisbach. He is—my bad—was, a British TV personality, but after resorting to “non-Christian activities”, he lost everything. This is his story.

You may be asking, “how do you know a British TV superstar?” Well, we met at the Presidential Gala in 2009 after briefly speaking to Steve Martin who introduced us. We became acquaintances, I told him about my work on the human body’s reaction to Takis, I’m a scientist after all. He then told me that I should come on his show, Tele Talk, and discuss my work. I formally accepted his gesture of interest, of course. It would be ridiculous to pass up such a great opportunity.

I arrived in London three weeks later. It was my first time overseas. Enamored by the sheer class, I felt like a homeless rat compared to the common Londoners. I went to the BBC studio on Wood Lane and met up with Charles. The interview went surprisingly well considering I had never been on TV before. I spoke about my work with…Takis and their effect on the human body. The audience asked questions, woo’d and ahh’d, it was hectic. And so began my friendship with Charles.

We went to bars, parties, premieres, yacht clubs, and cotillions. We met extravagant figures, world leaders, movie stars, and diplomats. Never before had I felt like such royalty! People would wait on me like a British lady waiting for a tea kettle to screech. I would soon come to find that this money and hospitality was simply a mask covering up his ruthlessness and addictive nature.

I soon began to question why all of this was unfolding around me. I was not special, nor was I interesting, so why was this TV sensation taking so much interest in me? Asking me to join him on his weekly excursions to exotic locations, local bars, and yacht clubs?

I was walking home in the cloudy London dusk from the tube station when I realized that, out of the blue, Charles hadn’t spoken to me in few days. My suspicions skyrocketed, I had received no texts, no calls, no emails, nothing. He was acting sneaky around the studio, leaving early and getting into an unmarked taxi cab.

I came home to find my room searched and my belongings amuck. The Taki’s were spilled all over the floor; he was crouched in the shower. He was fully clothed, ice cold water poured on his face. I opened the shower door and dried him off, he shook and quivered. His eyes began to roll back into his head. I called 911.

The doctors told me it was the Taki’s that caused that reaction. I was shaken to the core, I knew something was afoot. He was using me to satisfy his cravings. I was more upset that I really didn’t have a true friend.

“I just happened to come across them! I swear I don’t have an addiction!” Charles exclaimed.

“Sure…and I’m the king of Scotland!” I said in a fit of rage.

“Well, actually I happen to know the king of Sco-”

“I don’t care if you know the man in the moon, Charles!, You used me to get to my research and then sabotaged my career! I thought we were friends!”

“We are friends,” Charles gulped.

“No, we aren’t. I’ve never had any friends, so how would I have known.”

“Oh, don’t give me that victim rubbish. I care about you, but I have a very dark past. Only Taki’s can wash away the endless searing pain of depression. I feel happy like there’s not a care in the world.” Charles began to sob.

“What about all those people who look up to you? How do you think they would feel knowing that you resorted to this?” I cried.

“Who cares?! they’re all a bunch of nobodies anyway, sitting at home eating hot Cheetos and drinking soft drinks watching a sad man put on a fake smile and talking about God knows what!”

I had never felt so many emotions at once: despondency, rage, fear—just to name a few.

What was I going to do? Word had gotten out that Dreisbach was in the hospital, no one knew what for though. Paparazzi were flooding the building, and I was unfit to answer any questions on Charles’ behalf. Little did I know that famed celebrity reporter, Louis DiPesh, was standing right behind the door to the hospital room. He had heard everything.

I ran after him and chased him through the hospital corridors, I knocked over several nurses and punched an elderly woman. But by the time, I caught up with him he walked out into the field of reporters and screamed among them:  “Charles Dreisbach has a Taki addiction.” The crowd gasped and all eyes were on me. This was the beginning of the end.

The news made headlines across the world. For example: “British TV superstar hates his fans”, “Charles Dreisbach has an addiction,” etc.

Charles lost everything. His friends, his family, his studio, his mansion, his 2nd mansion, his yachts, and his collection of glass mittens.

But as they confiscated the last of his glass mittens, he fell to the street and sobbed. It began to rain. It looked like the ending scene of a sci-fi flick where the main antagonist is allergic to water and begins to melt.  He sat there for hours, ceasing to look away from the ruins of what his life once was.

I never saw him again. The last time I heard of him was that he was selling shark fins to a market in Micronesia, barely getting by and wearing rags.

Don’t do Taki’s. Don’t do drugs.