Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO was released from ICU within about four weeks, and Glenda and I picked him up. Glenda commemorated his "release" in a black sequin gown and stiletto heels that punched holes in the ground under her 260 pound frame.
LOBO had just spent four weeks restricted to a hospital bed, getting dubious hospital food and sponge baths from hot nurses, watching Hee Haw on cable and reading Louis L'Amour.
He gained about eight pounds in those 33 days.
They treated him like veal.
So LOBO busts out of his assless hospital gown with a visceral passion, badly craving non-hospital veal.
***
The best "veal" in town is Rocky's. At Rocky's, cute little chubby live baby lambs are kept behind a glass in full view --plainly labeled "veal"-- and you pick out your own. And at Rocky's, if you give the waiter an extra five bucks you can beat the shit out of it first.
Belching, the three of us lit some Cuban cigars I was saving for a special occasion. LOBO doesn't know or care that the "best veal in Pianosa" lacks the main ingredient: I heard him once tell a farmer that the goat wandering around on his property was "without question, the ugliest dog he had ever seen". Contemplative, LOBO draws on his cigar. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head as the aromatic smoke wafted around the almost post-sexual grin.
He has a special ability when it comes to enjoying moments, and this was a good day for the little bastard.
"You know Dash is getting out Thursday?" asks Glenda innocently, making small talk.
LOBO puffed his stogy. "Who's Dash?"
"Dash Cunning. The guy you kicked in the nuts."
"Twice," I added.
LOBO sat bolt upright. "Dash is still in the hospital!?"
"Sort of," I explained. "There was evidently some confusion when those ambulances came for you guys. One took you to the emergency room, and the other Dash to a mental institution."
"Oh my GOD!" says LOBO. "Dash is crackers?"
"So it would seem."
***
LOBO was clearly distraught. "We have to do something nice for Dash when he gets out," he decides flatly.
"We?"
"Yeah. He's spent a month getting his brain relentlessly picked over by other crazy people. Psychiatrists. He's going to need to blow off some steam."
"Want to send him flowers?" asks Glenda. "I know where he lives."
"You know where Dash lives?" says LOBO, increasingly animated.
"1212 Meadow Lane", she says. "The gate guy's name is Steve."
"Okay," says LOBO. "Here's what we do."
***
I'm not really sure why LOBO thought Dash might enjoy having his lavish estate renamed The Dash Cunning International Airport.
But LOBO is a vehement racist when it comes to dead people, and regularly reads the Obituaries, gloating: "Lookit that! This guy was a football quarterback in college, and then a decorated war hero in World War Two. A millionaire by thirty. Two Nobel Peace Prizes. And I outran the fuckin pansy! What a loser!"
Roundly opposed to naming it after any more "boring and worthless" dead people, he picked "The Dash Cunning International Airport".
And so it goes. Within two days, The Dash Cunning International Airport had a Duty Free and four Starbucks.
LOBO was complaining about the price of his Frappuccino when Dash pulled up.
With Dash's questionable mental history, the FAA and Homeland Security almost didn't let him on the premises until Glenda, in a silk blouse and hotpants, rushed out to reassure them that Dash was no threat.
After a brief spontaneous and gratuitous cavity search, Dash was allowed to enter. He was so impressed with all the remodeling, he started crying and popping these potent little "mood stabilizers" like candy. He pulls up in his driveway, but is blocked by a colorfully-painted DC-9 with "Aloha" written on the hull.
"Surprise!" says LOBO gleefully, welcoming Dash with open arms, spilling Frappuccino on the CB radio marked The Dash Cunning International Airport Control Tower.
Dash fainted.
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO was released from ICU within about four weeks, and Glenda and I picked him up. Glenda commemorated his "release" in a black sequin gown and stiletto heels that punched holes in the ground under her 260 pound frame.
LOBO had just spent four weeks restricted to a hospital bed, getting dubious hospital food and sponge baths from hot nurses, watching Hee Haw on cable and reading Louis L'Amour.
He gained about eight pounds in those 33 days.
They treated him like veal.
So LOBO busts out of his assless hospital gown with a visceral passion, badly craving non-hospital veal.
The best "veal" in town is Rocky's. At Rocky's, cute little chubby live baby lambs are kept behind a glass in full view --plainly labeled "veal"-- and you pick out your own. And at Rocky's, if you give the waiter an extra five bucks you can beat the shit out of it first.
Belching, the three of us lit some Cuban cigars I was saving for a special occasion. LOBO doesn't know or care that the "best veal in Pianosa" lacks the main ingredient: I heard him once tell a farmer that the goat wandering around on his property was "without question, the ugliest dog he had ever seen". Contemplative, LOBO draws on his cigar. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head as the aromatic smoke wafted around the almost post-sexual grin.
He has a special ability when it comes to enjoying moments, and this was a good day for the little bastard.
"You know Dash is getting out Thursday?" asks Glenda innocently, making small talk.
LOBO puffed his stogy. "Who's Dash?"
"Dash Cunning. The guy you kicked in the nuts."
"Twice," I added.
LOBO sat bolt upright. "Dash is still in the hospital!?"
"Sort of," I explained. "There was evidently some confusion when those ambulances came for you guys. One took you to the emergency room, and the other Dash to a mental institution."
"Oh my GOD!" says LOBO. "Dash is crackers?"
"So it would seem."
LOBO was clearly distraught. "We have to do something nice for Dash when he gets out," he decides flatly.
"We?"
"Yeah. He's spent a month getting his brain relentlessly picked over by other crazy people. Psychiatrists. He's going to need to blow off some steam."
"Want to send him flowers?" asks Glenda. "I know where he lives."
"You know where Dash lives?" says LOBO, increasingly animated.
"1212 Meadow Lane", she says. "The gate guy's name is Steve."
"Okay," says LOBO. "Here's what we do."
I'm not really sure why LOBO thought Dash might enjoy having his lavish estate renamed The Dash Cunning International Airport.
But LOBO is a vehement racist when it comes to dead people, and regularly reads the Obituaries, gloating: "Lookit that! This guy was a football quarterback in college, and then a decorated war hero in World War Two. A millionaire by thirty. Two Nobel Peace Prizes. And I outran the fuckin pansy! What a loser!"
Roundly opposed to naming it after any more "boring and worthless" dead people, he picked "The Dash Cunning International Airport".
And so it goes. Within two days, The Dash Cunning International Airport had a Duty Free and four Starbucks.
LOBO was complaining about the price of his Frappuccino when Dash pulled up.
With Dash's questionable mental history, the FAA and Homeland Security almost didn't let him on the premises until Glenda, in a silk blouse and hotpants, rushed out to reassure them that Dash was no threat.
After a brief spontaneous and gratuitous cavity search, Dash was allowed to enter. He was so impressed with all the remodeling, he started crying and popping these potent little "mood stabilizers" like candy. He pulls up in his driveway, but is blocked by a colorfully-painted DC-9 with "Aloha" written on the hull.
"Surprise!" says LOBO gleefully, welcoming Dash with open arms, spilling Frappuccino on the CB radio marked The Dash Cunning International Airport Control Tower.
Dash fainted.
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