Denny Crane. - SIXTY. Control.

Control


He likes to think he's in control. It's the idea that keeps him quiet - well, quiet is a relative term; quiet, only in the sense of few protests and rare demonstrations. He doesn't recall the last time he was truly in control. Paul's always made the rules; Shirley's enforced them, to the letter. Then Carl was brought in, like a hired gun with a bucket of red paint ready to make a target on the head of Denny Crane. But, he believes he's in control - at least, that's what he makes sure to tell everyone as he gestures to point out his name, first on the letterhead.

Control. It's a funny word. He tries to only use it for things like crossword puzzles - things where it's merely a word, not a statement of being. There was a time when he held power in his hand - courtrooms were his playground, and he never played nice with the other kids, unless you count leaving them both devestated and awestruck as nice. Denny Crane thinks he was nice; he feels it was perfectly charitable to step on the little people because it left them touched by Denny Crane.

The office has his name displayed all around in bold lettering. The courtrooms of Boston still echo his footsteps. But, control? That's something he lost a long time ago. It wasn't something he willingly gave up. It's not a thing he can look back on a pinpoint that exact date and time that it was stolen from his grasp. But, control is something no longer held by Denny Crane, though in reality, he isn't certain of when he ever truly held it at all.