Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn't take it personally.
But when I saw the headlines of The Washington Post, it made me really mad.
"LOBO=DUMBASS" was not only a personal and unprofessional dig, but I felt it was an insult to all of our millions and millions of readers around the globe.
And to our readers in other countries, too.
Woe to thee, Washington Post, a once great and creditable resource of information ... how far the mighty have fallen, to stoop to the level of pandering mere tawdry tabloids, pig-piling onto Predator Press with that other Wall-thingy newspaper's tripe!
I tried to book a flight to Seattle so's I could kick your ass good and proper, but the ticket agent --obviously a reader of your slanderous filth and boldfaced lies--mocked me, insisting it was the wrong Washington. As if with only 52 states, they would name two of them the same thing!? This asshole has obviously greatly misjudged my brutal, insatiable wrath and enormous, radiant brainiosity, and I'm reluctant to have such an inferior intellect handling my travel plans.
But fear not, o loyal reader ... ultimately, I outsmarted him.
I booked a flight to Spokane instead.
And just so you know how serious I really am, I just bought the super giant colossal diesel-powered Neopet 3000 --the Urban Assault model-- custom-fitted with stainless steel flesh-ripping teeth, rocket launchers, lethal poison-tipped claws, several fine mesh screens to squeeze your wet, sloppy vital organs through, and the optional cup holder. It's going to rip your terrified eyeballs out through your panic-stricken armpits!
... It sure seemed a lot bigger in the pictures, though ...
Monday
Predator Press Review: The Wall Street Journal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This is far and away the worst stupid thing I've ever read. And the people the read this stupid thing are just as stupid as the stupid people that write the stupid thing.
I've left eighteen messages, but Tim Annet won't return my calls so I can challenge him to a death match on Pay-Per-View.
So Tim Annet is stupid, and he's a yellow chicken.
This stupid paper doesn't even have any pictures! And it's all boring stuff nobody cares about ... it's all "Microsoft this" and "Beirut that", and "The Ayatollah declared war today", blah blah blah.
Oh, it's on, bitches ... Predator Press could kick your stupid asses any day of the week.
... Stupid.
[LOBO]
This is far and away the worst stupid thing I've ever read. And the people the read this stupid thing are just as stupid as the stupid people that write the stupid thing.
I've left eighteen messages, but Tim Annet won't return my calls so I can challenge him to a death match on Pay-Per-View.
So Tim Annet is stupid, and he's a yellow chicken.
This stupid paper doesn't even have any pictures! And it's all boring stuff nobody cares about ... it's all "Microsoft this" and "Beirut that", and "The Ayatollah declared war today", blah blah blah.
Oh, it's on, bitches ... Predator Press could kick your stupid asses any day of the week.
... Stupid.
Triage
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
So drifting in the velvety Vicodin fog, I stare at the gigantic, bulbous marshmallows at the end of my suspended legs. What used to be simple feet are now giant pale balloons, and I worry of being lifted off of the bed and drifting upside-down toward the ceiling.
To ensure this doesn't happen, Edward is sitting at the foot of the bed reading The Wall Street Journal.
He's shaking his head.
"Where's LOBO?" I ask.
Edward looks up, startled. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Where's LOBO?" I repeat.
"I'm not sure exactly. He disappeared shortly after your surgery."
"Where are we?" I ask, blearily looking around the room.
"Pianosa Emergency Center," replied Edward.
That explains LOBO's absence really. LOBO, a veritable life-support system for mobile disaster, was on a first name basis with everyone here. I vaguely remember their surprise when it wasn't him being checked in again.
The idiot probably had his own wing by now.
"I've got some bad news," says Edward.
I dreamily look up at the gargantuan bowling balls of white gauze that were once my feet, and laugh. "Oh, what now?"
He shows me the cover of the Wall Street Journal.
The headline reads:
PREDATOR PRESS DEEMED
WORST PUBLICATION IN THE WORLD
"Jesus Christ!" I says, grabbing the paper.
Fighting the fuzzy feeling of the potent drugs, my comprehension was pretty sketchy. I read Tim Annet's article, just dripping acidic quotes like:
" ... worst group of foul-mouthed pedantic pinheads to ever dare call themselves 'journalists' ... ", and
" ... couldn't even finish because I was sticking knives in my eyes to stop the inane drivel from penetrating my skull ... "
"Oh sweet Jesus," I says, flapping the paper in my lap.
Just then, LOBO burst into the room.
"Guys! You're not going to believe this!" he says beaming.
My stomach sinks in quiet dread.
"We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
"We know, LOBO," says Edward.
LOBO pauses, confused. "Did someone die?"
"No, you moron!" I snarl. "That article is eviscerating! We're ruined!"
Again, LOBO paused. "You did read the part about the guy sticking knives in his eyes, right?"
We nodded.
LOBO, completely undeterred, waves his arms wildly in the air.
"C'mon guys" he insists. "We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
[Mr. I]
So drifting in the velvety Vicodin fog, I stare at the gigantic, bulbous marshmallows at the end of my suspended legs. What used to be simple feet are now giant pale balloons, and I worry of being lifted off of the bed and drifting upside-down toward the ceiling.
To ensure this doesn't happen, Edward is sitting at the foot of the bed reading The Wall Street Journal.
He's shaking his head.
"Where's LOBO?" I ask.
Edward looks up, startled. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Where's LOBO?" I repeat.
"I'm not sure exactly. He disappeared shortly after your surgery."
"Where are we?" I ask, blearily looking around the room.
"Pianosa Emergency Center," replied Edward.
That explains LOBO's absence really. LOBO, a veritable life-support system for mobile disaster, was on a first name basis with everyone here. I vaguely remember their surprise when it wasn't him being checked in again.
The idiot probably had his own wing by now.
"I've got some bad news," says Edward.
I dreamily look up at the gargantuan bowling balls of white gauze that were once my feet, and laugh. "Oh, what now?"
He shows me the cover of the Wall Street Journal.
The headline reads:
WORST PUBLICATION IN THE WORLD
"Jesus Christ!" I says, grabbing the paper.
Fighting the fuzzy feeling of the potent drugs, my comprehension was pretty sketchy. I read Tim Annet's article, just dripping acidic quotes like:
" ... worst group of foul-mouthed pedantic pinheads to ever dare call themselves 'journalists' ... ", and
" ... couldn't even finish because I was sticking knives in my eyes to stop the inane drivel from penetrating my skull ... "
"Oh sweet Jesus," I says, flapping the paper in my lap.
Just then, LOBO burst into the room.
"Guys! You're not going to believe this!" he says beaming.
My stomach sinks in quiet dread.
"We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
"We know, LOBO," says Edward.
LOBO pauses, confused. "Did someone die?"
"No, you moron!" I snarl. "That article is eviscerating! We're ruined!"
Again, LOBO paused. "You did read the part about the guy sticking knives in his eyes, right?"
We nodded.
LOBO, completely undeterred, waves his arms wildly in the air.
"C'mon guys" he insists. "We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
Sunday
Prodigy
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Napoleon, in full non-Napoleonic attire, was just getting back when I woke.
I decided, last night, that it would just be safer and more convenient to keep an eye on them from my place. The roommate thing hasn't really turned up anything so far, so it wasn't like I didn't have the space. So I gave Napoleon the extra bedroom, and went into the basement to clear out a spot for the other lunatic.
Luckily, I found a nasty old flea-ridden dog bed that has been there since I moved in.
Hearing the sounds of glass breaking, LOBO followed me down. He already had his footie Gi Joe pajamas on, and was gingerly toting a mug of hot chocolate.
"No marshmallows?"
"No," I says, sprinkling salt everywhere. "Now try not to break any more of this glass lying around. It's very valuable."
"Gotcha," he says, alternating the hot mug in his hands. "This'll be just like when we went camping in Chicago."
"Yes," I says absently as I climb the cobwebby stairs. "Minus the shooting," I add hopefully. When in Chicago, we got four parking tickets at $120 bucks apiece because of some snafu in parking permit paperwork. For once, LOBO and I were in complete agreement: the City of Chicago was a bloodsucking parasite, greedily feasting upon its hapless denizens.
While we inevitably had to pay the $480 in fines eventually, we did so with the peace of mind of knowing we had ruthlessly doled out at least $48,000 worth of vandalism, theft, and various other acts of healthy, righteous payback.
You know how mile marker '69' keeps disappearing?
That's us.
It was pointless, yet not somehow; we were "canceling out" whatever benefits this faceless evil enjoyed from this criminal exploitation, and then some. It was almost noble in a way, and it gave us a weird, visceral satisfaction. Fighting tyranny by playing a less-than-zero sum game. To this day, LOBO parks diagonally across three parking spaces, smashing the meter with his bumper, and is disappointed if the colorful paper under the windshield wiper is merely a flyer or a restaurant menu.
"Thank you," LOBO called up after me from the damp and dusty oppressive gloom.
"You're welcome, now go to sleep!" I yelled.
So, as I was saying, Napoleon walks into the kitchen this morning hauling two huge grocery bags as I'm blearily following the smell of brewing coffee. I'm in a bathrobe still, barefoot. Meanwhile, Napoleon is wearing a custom-fitted gray suit, complete with a thin red tie and expensive looking cufflinks. He looks like he's straight off of Wall Street.
And with the groceries in tow, he makes one of the best breakfasts I've ever had. Sausage. Bacon. Eggs florentine. Expresso. Real butter, and milk and cream tasting like the cow was right outside. When Napoleon is distracted, I sneak a peek at the receipts, bundled tightly around a credit card and sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. The breakfast ran an impressive $110. The suit was an even more impressive $760 after the alterations, and the Bruno Mali shoes a mere pittance at $280.
The credit card was a VISA Platinum.
And the name on it was Edward R. Harrows, PhD.
***
"You don't need to do that, uh, Napoleon" I says to him as he sets out a third place-setting for the vast breakfast spread. "He'll wake up and head straight for the Frosted Flakes."
"Please call me Edward," says Napoleon. "LOBO won't eat a hot breakfast?"
"Firstly, it has spinach in it. Secondly, he's saving box tops for a microscope."
Edward scowled slightly. "Do cereal companies still do that kind of thing?"
"Who knows?" I says.
"When does he get up?"
"Noonish."
"Well, he's on his own then."
I cave into my curiosity. "Edward, eh?" I ask cautiously. This guy is a mental patient after all. For all I know, the real 'Doctor Harrows' is being hauled out of a ditch by police and cadaver dogs this very moment.
"Yes," Edward replies. He has a deep, captivating baritone voice, pleasant to listen to. He could do movie narratives. "The 'Napoleon' thing keeps my wife down to two visits a month."
"Huh," I says.
We eat breakfast in a quiet solitude rarely enjoyed in LOBO's presence. I'm on my third scotch, working up my courage, when LOBO emerges, holding his balls through his PJs, dancing from foot to foot. He looks alternately at a pack of cigarettes, the box of Frosted Flakes, and the bathroom door, frantic and confused.
"I would recommend the bathroom first," I says.
"Yes," he says, relieved as he scurries off.
Edward was on the couch reading quietly. He had read Chuck Palahniuk's Choke in it's entirety overnight, and was just starting Haunted. After a few minutes, he sets the book down in his lap and massages the top of his nose, under where his glasses settle. "This is the second book in a row where by page twelve people are sticking things up their butts," he says finally. "What is it with white Pop Culture?"
"Beats me," I says as LOBO emerges again.
To LOBO I says, "Did you wash your hands?"
He proudly displays his palms to me. "I'm running a bath now too," he says.
"Good," I reply.
"I found your birth certificate in a box down there. Did you know your middle name is Chainsaw?"
"Yes I did. And I would appreciate you minding your own fucking business from now on."
Another scotch, and I'm ready.
To Edward, "So the whole 'Napoleon' thing is an act?"
"Yes," Edward says as sets the book down again.
"But acting like Napoleon is crazy," I says.
"I'd be crazy not to," says Edward.
"Is that how you ended up in the asylum?"
"No. I'm in for substance abuse."
A card carrying multiple personality-addled drug addict. Peachy.
"It's a long story," says Edward.
***
The Harrows family had it all.
According to Edward, James Harrows, Edward's great-great grandfather, had invented the vulcanization of rubber, but was mugged by Charles Goodyear on the way to the patent office. Goodyear, late for a Klan rally, failed to rub his fingerprints off of the baseball bat, and the forensic evidence would bear this out to be factual many years later. Goodyear, now a multi-billion dollar company, was forced to offer an out-of-court settlement of eighteen bucks to the Harrow family by a white jury reluctant to go changing a lot of rather inconvenient history books.
Plus retroactive interest.
This made for quite a bit of money.
The Harrows, for generations, have subsequently been millionaires. Edward, never having worked a day in his life, was a top 5% Yale graduate, having received his PhD in music theory in 1994.
And then he puttered around Julliard for another two years, perfecting the mastery over his chosen instrument. Before long, he was one of the most widely-sought after triangle players in the world.
When he played with the London Symphony Orchestra, people eight rows deep wept at his predanatural gift. Journalists in dozens of languages decried that Edward must have made a deal with Satan himself to chime with such innate and mesmerizing talent. In his heyday, it was calculated by Forbes Magazine that he was flown all over the globe to chime for kings and queens at a rate of roughly $600,000 per heart-wrenching ting.
He then met his true love, Bethany Anne Bellefonte; before long the loving pair were married and proud parents of two beautiful children, Alicia and Carlton.
And it was at Carlton's first birthday party that things went so terribly awry.
Bethany decided she wanted the kind of party suitable for their elevated social stature. The petting zoo, the clowns, the works. And she wanted a sheik retro theme, complete with aerosol cans of Silly String and big bowls of giant Jawbreakers.
And Pop Rocks.
Edward, beguiled by the colorful packaging, ate a packet of orange Pop Rocks while he was setting up the party. He ate two packets of grape while the clowns made balloon animals.
By the end of the day, he had consumed thirty-four packets. Fresh out, he shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands, paying the extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because he couldn't pick them up at the warehouse tonight.
Four months later, when he crashed his 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
Bethany, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to Edward's rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted him, and Edward swore he would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But that very night, she woke him screaming that she couldn't sleep because he was crackling so loud. Days later, a perfunctory cleaning in the bathroom by the maid revealed Edward's stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Bethany packed up the kids and left him to the inevitable ruin that was to follow.
Edward's music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum bum ting" would come out "bum bum-ting-bum". The surgical precision required to hit a triangle with just the right force seemed to escape him, and it was either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. And the sound engineers never seemed to be able to identify and fix the mysterious sizzling static Edward's microphone would constantly seem to emulate.
Soon, he would show up late for symphony performances, play his single note, and then leave immediately --before the end of the show-- in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the single note on page 98, he would sleep through shows, missing his cue completely. Once, he accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music by accident and played the whole concert like it was dinnertime at the chuck wagon, earning him a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw. But his downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and he was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
His hygiene suffered, and his flesh seethed and bubbled visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.
Six months later, a guilt-ridden Bethany tracked him to a cheap motel room. Unemployed, Edward was pouring a packet of Pop Rocks into a spoon, tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, Edward had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Bethany.
"Nonsense," replied Edward, twisting the thick rubber band over his elbow. "I can quit anytime I want."
"I knew you would say that," says Bethany. "That's why I brought these people from Bertram."
Six big guys in white outfits entered the room. Each opened a straight jacket, a chain, some unrecognizable restraining gadget, a syringe.
"I don't need a goddamned intervention!" Edward screamed through purple teeth.
Then, blammo.
***
"Blammo?" asks LOBO, chewing loudly.
"Yes," says Edward. "Distracted by everybody, I accidentally touched the Pop Rocks in the spoon to the open flame. Bethany Anne Bellefonte-Harrows and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast. But the six orderlies and the rest of the entire floor of the motel were blown to smithereens. Hence, 'Napoleon'. It was either that or face eleven counts of reckless homicide."
Suddenly, the lights went out.
In the ensuing quiet, we could hear the bathtub running.
"Fuck!" I says. "Goddamnit LOBO, you left the tub running!"
LOBO offered me a painful Frosted Flake-riddled smile as he ran for the bathroom.
"I'm sure the water just tripped the circuit breaker," offered Edward.
I ran downstairs to flip the circuit breaker switch, and screamed when I hit the salted glass.
[Mr. I]
Napoleon, in full non-Napoleonic attire, was just getting back when I woke.
I decided, last night, that it would just be safer and more convenient to keep an eye on them from my place. The roommate thing hasn't really turned up anything so far, so it wasn't like I didn't have the space. So I gave Napoleon the extra bedroom, and went into the basement to clear out a spot for the other lunatic.
Luckily, I found a nasty old flea-ridden dog bed that has been there since I moved in.
Hearing the sounds of glass breaking, LOBO followed me down. He already had his footie Gi Joe pajamas on, and was gingerly toting a mug of hot chocolate.
"No marshmallows?"
"No," I says, sprinkling salt everywhere. "Now try not to break any more of this glass lying around. It's very valuable."
"Gotcha," he says, alternating the hot mug in his hands. "This'll be just like when we went camping in Chicago."
"Yes," I says absently as I climb the cobwebby stairs. "Minus the shooting," I add hopefully. When in Chicago, we got four parking tickets at $120 bucks apiece because of some snafu in parking permit paperwork. For once, LOBO and I were in complete agreement: the City of Chicago was a bloodsucking parasite, greedily feasting upon its hapless denizens.
While we inevitably had to pay the $480 in fines eventually, we did so with the peace of mind of knowing we had ruthlessly doled out at least $48,000 worth of vandalism, theft, and various other acts of healthy, righteous payback.
You know how mile marker '69' keeps disappearing?
That's us.
It was pointless, yet not somehow; we were "canceling out" whatever benefits this faceless evil enjoyed from this criminal exploitation, and then some. It was almost noble in a way, and it gave us a weird, visceral satisfaction. Fighting tyranny by playing a less-than-zero sum game. To this day, LOBO parks diagonally across three parking spaces, smashing the meter with his bumper, and is disappointed if the colorful paper under the windshield wiper is merely a flyer or a restaurant menu.
"Thank you," LOBO called up after me from the damp and dusty oppressive gloom.
"You're welcome, now go to sleep!" I yelled.
So, as I was saying, Napoleon walks into the kitchen this morning hauling two huge grocery bags as I'm blearily following the smell of brewing coffee. I'm in a bathrobe still, barefoot. Meanwhile, Napoleon is wearing a custom-fitted gray suit, complete with a thin red tie and expensive looking cufflinks. He looks like he's straight off of Wall Street.
And with the groceries in tow, he makes one of the best breakfasts I've ever had. Sausage. Bacon. Eggs florentine. Expresso. Real butter, and milk and cream tasting like the cow was right outside. When Napoleon is distracted, I sneak a peek at the receipts, bundled tightly around a credit card and sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. The breakfast ran an impressive $110. The suit was an even more impressive $760 after the alterations, and the Bruno Mali shoes a mere pittance at $280.
The credit card was a VISA Platinum.
And the name on it was Edward R. Harrows, PhD.
"You don't need to do that, uh, Napoleon" I says to him as he sets out a third place-setting for the vast breakfast spread. "He'll wake up and head straight for the Frosted Flakes."
"Please call me Edward," says Napoleon. "LOBO won't eat a hot breakfast?"
"Firstly, it has spinach in it. Secondly, he's saving box tops for a microscope."
Edward scowled slightly. "Do cereal companies still do that kind of thing?"
"Who knows?" I says.
"When does he get up?"
"Noonish."
"Well, he's on his own then."
I cave into my curiosity. "Edward, eh?" I ask cautiously. This guy is a mental patient after all. For all I know, the real 'Doctor Harrows' is being hauled out of a ditch by police and cadaver dogs this very moment.
"Yes," Edward replies. He has a deep, captivating baritone voice, pleasant to listen to. He could do movie narratives. "The 'Napoleon' thing keeps my wife down to two visits a month."
"Huh," I says.
We eat breakfast in a quiet solitude rarely enjoyed in LOBO's presence. I'm on my third scotch, working up my courage, when LOBO emerges, holding his balls through his PJs, dancing from foot to foot. He looks alternately at a pack of cigarettes, the box of Frosted Flakes, and the bathroom door, frantic and confused.
"I would recommend the bathroom first," I says.
"Yes," he says, relieved as he scurries off.
Edward was on the couch reading quietly. He had read Chuck Palahniuk's Choke in it's entirety overnight, and was just starting Haunted. After a few minutes, he sets the book down in his lap and massages the top of his nose, under where his glasses settle. "This is the second book in a row where by page twelve people are sticking things up their butts," he says finally. "What is it with white Pop Culture?"
"Beats me," I says as LOBO emerges again.
To LOBO I says, "Did you wash your hands?"
He proudly displays his palms to me. "I'm running a bath now too," he says.
"Good," I reply.
"I found your birth certificate in a box down there. Did you know your middle name is Chainsaw?"
"Yes I did. And I would appreciate you minding your own fucking business from now on."
Another scotch, and I'm ready.
To Edward, "So the whole 'Napoleon' thing is an act?"
"Yes," Edward says as sets the book down again.
"But acting like Napoleon is crazy," I says.
"I'd be crazy not to," says Edward.
"Is that how you ended up in the asylum?"
"No. I'm in for substance abuse."
A card carrying multiple personality-addled drug addict. Peachy.
"It's a long story," says Edward.
The Harrows family had it all.
According to Edward, James Harrows, Edward's great-great grandfather, had invented the vulcanization of rubber, but was mugged by Charles Goodyear on the way to the patent office. Goodyear, late for a Klan rally, failed to rub his fingerprints off of the baseball bat, and the forensic evidence would bear this out to be factual many years later. Goodyear, now a multi-billion dollar company, was forced to offer an out-of-court settlement of eighteen bucks to the Harrow family by a white jury reluctant to go changing a lot of rather inconvenient history books.
Plus retroactive interest.
This made for quite a bit of money.
The Harrows, for generations, have subsequently been millionaires. Edward, never having worked a day in his life, was a top 5% Yale graduate, having received his PhD in music theory in 1994.
And then he puttered around Julliard for another two years, perfecting the mastery over his chosen instrument. Before long, he was one of the most widely-sought after triangle players in the world.
When he played with the London Symphony Orchestra, people eight rows deep wept at his predanatural gift. Journalists in dozens of languages decried that Edward must have made a deal with Satan himself to chime with such innate and mesmerizing talent. In his heyday, it was calculated by Forbes Magazine that he was flown all over the globe to chime for kings and queens at a rate of roughly $600,000 per heart-wrenching ting.
He then met his true love, Bethany Anne Bellefonte; before long the loving pair were married and proud parents of two beautiful children, Alicia and Carlton.
And it was at Carlton's first birthday party that things went so terribly awry.
Bethany decided she wanted the kind of party suitable for their elevated social stature. The petting zoo, the clowns, the works. And she wanted a sheik retro theme, complete with aerosol cans of Silly String and big bowls of giant Jawbreakers.
And Pop Rocks.
Edward, beguiled by the colorful packaging, ate a packet of orange Pop Rocks while he was setting up the party. He ate two packets of grape while the clowns made balloon animals.
By the end of the day, he had consumed thirty-four packets. Fresh out, he shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands, paying the extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because he couldn't pick them up at the warehouse tonight.
Four months later, when he crashed his 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
Bethany, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to Edward's rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted him, and Edward swore he would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But that very night, she woke him screaming that she couldn't sleep because he was crackling so loud. Days later, a perfunctory cleaning in the bathroom by the maid revealed Edward's stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Bethany packed up the kids and left him to the inevitable ruin that was to follow.
Edward's music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum bum ting" would come out "bum bum-ting-bum". The surgical precision required to hit a triangle with just the right force seemed to escape him, and it was either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. And the sound engineers never seemed to be able to identify and fix the mysterious sizzling static Edward's microphone would constantly seem to emulate.
Soon, he would show up late for symphony performances, play his single note, and then leave immediately --before the end of the show-- in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the single note on page 98, he would sleep through shows, missing his cue completely. Once, he accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music by accident and played the whole concert like it was dinnertime at the chuck wagon, earning him a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw. But his downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and he was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
His hygiene suffered, and his flesh seethed and bubbled visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.
Six months later, a guilt-ridden Bethany tracked him to a cheap motel room. Unemployed, Edward was pouring a packet of Pop Rocks into a spoon, tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, Edward had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Bethany.
"Nonsense," replied Edward, twisting the thick rubber band over his elbow. "I can quit anytime I want."
"I knew you would say that," says Bethany. "That's why I brought these people from Bertram."
Six big guys in white outfits entered the room. Each opened a straight jacket, a chain, some unrecognizable restraining gadget, a syringe.
"I don't need a goddamned intervention!" Edward screamed through purple teeth.
Then, blammo.
"Blammo?" asks LOBO, chewing loudly.
"Yes," says Edward. "Distracted by everybody, I accidentally touched the Pop Rocks in the spoon to the open flame. Bethany Anne Bellefonte-Harrows and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast. But the six orderlies and the rest of the entire floor of the motel were blown to smithereens. Hence, 'Napoleon'. It was either that or face eleven counts of reckless homicide."
Suddenly, the lights went out.
In the ensuing quiet, we could hear the bathtub running.
"Fuck!" I says. "Goddamnit LOBO, you left the tub running!"
LOBO offered me a painful Frosted Flake-riddled smile as he ran for the bathroom.
"I'm sure the water just tripped the circuit breaker," offered Edward.
I ran downstairs to flip the circuit breaker switch, and screamed when I hit the salted glass.
Thursday
Love Machine
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Ethan's idea worked so well, I didn't take the picture off until we got to the Fox studios. They still had to film the conclusion of Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire?.
Immediately, the Fox techs start rigging him up with microphones.
"What's all this?" LOBO asks.
"They need to film the part where Lexus Hilton breaks it to you that she's not marrying you."
"Who?"
"Lexus Hilton--" I start. "Look, just forget it. Try to look disappointed."
Lexus, standing in front of a church altar in a dazzling white dress, takes this big dramatic pause while twirling a single rose in her fingertips. Looking over her two suitors for what seems like an eternity, the leggy beauty beams, "I choose you, Chip Intel."
"What!?" LOBO demanded. "You filthy whore! I loved you!" he sobs. "Well, don't you come crawlin back to me, you heartless, manipulative, two-timing, flea-ridden, disease-riddled, cum-guzzling gutter slut!"
"Cut!" yells the producer. "Print it. Cue the wedding music!"
"I thought you were special," LOBO continued. "--I thought what we had was special. But you rip out my heart and wring the blood out like a towel and then jump on it with stiletto heals and stuff it in a fiery garbage disposal instead ... ?!"
This went on for a while.
***
"... and eviscerate the remains of my heart in the super-collider, flushing the nerve endings down a sulfuric acid-filled toilet and blow-torching the leftover atomic particles into oblivion, and then dancing on the particles barefoot, squishing them between your spunk-contaminated monkey-masterbating toes ... !?"
"The wedding's been over for two hours, LOBO," I says gently, patting his shoulder. "She's gone. In fact, the crew's already done packing up and cleaning the set."
"You think she'll call?" he asks gloomily.
"Miss Hilton isn't good enough for you sir," consoles Napoleon.
"Who?"
[Mr. I]
Ethan's idea worked so well, I didn't take the picture off until we got to the Fox studios. They still had to film the conclusion of Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire?.
Immediately, the Fox techs start rigging him up with microphones.
"What's all this?" LOBO asks.
"They need to film the part where Lexus Hilton breaks it to you that she's not marrying you."
"Who?"
"Lexus Hilton--" I start. "Look, just forget it. Try to look disappointed."
Lexus, standing in front of a church altar in a dazzling white dress, takes this big dramatic pause while twirling a single rose in her fingertips. Looking over her two suitors for what seems like an eternity, the leggy beauty beams, "I choose you, Chip Intel."
"What!?" LOBO demanded. "You filthy whore! I loved you!" he sobs. "Well, don't you come crawlin back to me, you heartless, manipulative, two-timing, flea-ridden, disease-riddled, cum-guzzling gutter slut!"
"Cut!" yells the producer. "Print it. Cue the wedding music!"
"I thought you were special," LOBO continued. "--I thought what we had was special. But you rip out my heart and wring the blood out like a towel and then jump on it with stiletto heals and stuff it in a fiery garbage disposal instead ... ?!"
This went on for a while.
"... and eviscerate the remains of my heart in the super-collider, flushing the nerve endings down a sulfuric acid-filled toilet and blow-torching the leftover atomic particles into oblivion, and then dancing on the particles barefoot, squishing them between your spunk-contaminated monkey-masterbating toes ... !?"
"The wedding's been over for two hours, LOBO," I says gently, patting his shoulder. "She's gone. In fact, the crew's already done packing up and cleaning the set."
"You think she'll call?" he asks gloomily.
"Miss Hilton isn't good enough for you sir," consoles Napoleon.
"Who?"
Cabin Pressure
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone.
Long pause, yawning. “This better be important.”
“We’ve got a Code 16b in progress!”
Another pause. “LOBO is breaking out mental patients while simultaneously running for President?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. I bought them both little hats with propellers on them, and they ran around in circles trying to take off until they passed out.”
“Good work,” says Ethan.
“Now what?”
“You got any handcuffs?”
“No sir. I don’t really swing that way. I’m more of a duct tape kind of guy.”
“Fine," says Ethan. "Tape a picture of Dick Cheney hunting to his forehead. He won’t move for hours.”
[Mr. I]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone.
Long pause, yawning. “This better be important.”
“We’ve got a Code 16b in progress!”
Another pause. “LOBO is breaking out mental patients while simultaneously running for President?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. I bought them both little hats with propellers on them, and they ran around in circles trying to take off until they passed out.”
“Good work,” says Ethan.
“Now what?”
“You got any handcuffs?”
“No sir. I don’t really swing that way. I’m more of a duct tape kind of guy.”
“Fine," says Ethan. "Tape a picture of Dick Cheney hunting to his forehead. He won’t move for hours.”
Tuesday
Wild Kingdom
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
***
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
***
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
"___________ is a DICK
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
***
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Democrats
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Republicans
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
***
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
***
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
Monday
Tar Baby
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
I hand the clipboard back through the sliding glass window, and the nurse scrutinizes it with great interest through thick, black-framed Buddy Holly glasses you associate with the nerdy.
"Hm," she began. "No drugs or alcohol? Really?"
"No ma'am," I says. "He says he doesn't like sharing the credit."
That's when I start feeling my first pangs of guilt. At least when LOBO did drugs, he would tend to be a little more reclusive. And cautious. Manageable. But drug-free status only emboldened him. In his eyes, I think, he was just finally taking his rightful spot in the world with the rest of us clean lunatics.
Still, this was a kind of half-truth. LOBO and I have blown some occasional weed. But I don't feel like explaining to some nosy puritanical asshole how they should mind their own fucking business about people's private recreational pursuits. We're adults. And we're not robbing liquor stores and crashing cars.
It's commerce really. Dolly Madison and XBox should send us fruit baskets.
Fuck off.
"Are you the next of kin?" she asks without looking at me.
"No," I says. "Well, I'm not sure-"
Shit.
"No," I reply flatly.
"Your relationship with the patient?"
The official title, the one I put on my taxes, is "Assistant". But that doesn't really cover it, does it Ethan?
"Handler, I suppose."
"Really?" she says again.
Somebody get this woman a Thesaurus.
"Yeah. We work for Hawly Enterprises. Publishing. My guess is that the CEO is sort of David's benefactor. Like Jerry's Kids or something. Probably a public relations thing."
"Maybe he figures Mister Curr is safer where an eye can be kept on him."
"Yeah. Or maybe everyone else is safer that way."
"And he's insured by-" she squints at the scribbly clipboard. "Hawly Enterprises?"
"Yeah."
"Well, bless this Mr Hawly. He sounds like a wonderful and noble fellow, what with looking out for the handicapped and all."
And his tax exemptions.
"Yeah, I'd fuck him," I says dryly.
She glares at me, a little stunned. "Please have a seat," she says, grabbing the sliding window. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
Thud.
***
I hear her voice over the PA system as I'm flipping through archaic issues of Sports Illustrated and Time Magazine. "Doctor Keller, please report to ... "
Selecting an antiquated Sports Illustrated, I try not to make eye contact with anyone else in the waiting room.
Sitting, I notice I've unbuttoned my suit jacket completely on 'autopilot'. My belly -clear evidence of my new-found success- rolls out and swallows my belt whole.
I've grown pretty used to all this money.
I imagine how I'll be gingerly explaining to Ethan that while he was on vacation, my "charge" -and his best friend- was recently committed. This is serious. Even more serious than when LOBO took a shower at Phoebe's place and left hairs stuck in the soap, sink and bathtub, and she burned her own house down in utter revulsion.
No matter how much arson I've covered up, no matter how much insurance fraud I've committed, the addition of 'Handler' on my new resume won't seem very potent.
Goodbye salary, goodbye expense accounts.
I wonder if Ethan will let me keep my clothes, my car.
I'm the Predator Press whore.
It should be me in here.
***
Doctor Keller arrives, rescuing me from excruciating speculation over who is going to win the 2004 World Series.
I stand, and we shake hands.
"Thank you for coming," he says.
I was expecting a white lab coat. A stethoscope. A pager.
Doctor icons for people who watch too much television.
Doctor Keller is in khakis, a button-up checkered shirt, expensive preppie-leather shoes and a matching thin belt. He looks more like somebody who orders baked potato skins and a diet Coke at TGIF, and then stiffs the waitress on a tip. But the more I think about it, the more it made sense, really. In his line of work, it probably pays to not appear so clinical and imposing.
"How is he?" I ask as we walk past through the door. From the waiting room, it looks like a door anyway; once inside, the facade drops abruptly, revealing a massive cage.
I think of tiger traps you see in cartoons, the big hole covered with palm tree branches.
Long halls of white gloss, antiseptic smells, and steel mesh are the Feng Shui of Crackerland today.
You must be this nuts to take this ride.
I'm expecting something more like Arkham from Batman comics. Still, where good Doctor Keller let me down, the tidy innards of Bertram Asylum did not disappoint.
"He's, well ... " the doctor begins. Keller is walking really fast. I don't think visitors see this wing often. "Comfortable."
"Comfortable" is doctor-speak for sedated.
"Keeping him good and stoned, eh?" I ask, smiling. "Doc, I've spent the last year with that crazy bastard. You can drop the clinical euphemisms."
"No, I'm afraid you don't understand," he says.
Jesus Christ this guy walks fast. We stop at a massive steel door, and he slides his keycard through a protruding slot.
"See for yourself."
***
Through a large, thick, one-way glass window, we can see LOBO. In white pajamas and a straight jacket, he's sitting cross legged in the middle of an empty room.
He looks peaceful. Like he's meditating. You could easily imagine little glowing butterflies circling his empty head.
"Wow," I says. "I was expecting him to be really upset. You must've given him some really great shit!
"We don't have him on any medication," replies the doctor.
"Huh?"
"He's been a model patient. He's healthy, and no danger to himself or others."
"So why is he here?" I ask cautiously. I can already tell I don't like where this is going.
"Well, frankly, it seems he doesn't want to leave."
My fuckin jaw must've been on the floor. "Doc. I thought you brought me here to clear up some paperwork. Maybe even visit--!"
"No. We've been trying to release him for several hours now."
Covering my eyes, I fall back into a convenient viewing chair.
I forgot to unbutton my jacket, and the button cracks loudly against the glass.
LOBO stirs to the sound.
The doctor continues. "We were hoping you would help us make his departure, well," the doc thought for a moment, "voluntary."
I open my eyes, and watch LOBO struggle to his feet. He squints into the glass.
"But he's fucking crazy!" I insist.
"Yes. He has a lot of emotional and psychological problems, true. But nothing that warrants him staying here."
"But he's fucking crazy!" I repeat, pointing at the glass, dumbfounded. "Are you sure you're not a patient here? Where's your goddamned stethoscope? I need to see some fucking credentials, mister--"
"With the proper medication and counseling, he can be handled on an outpatient basis."
"Oh!" I chuckle, digging for my wallet. "Now I've gotcha. Listen, if you're angling for a bribe, boy are you barking up the right tree." I spread it open and break out the greenbacks. "I've got about three hundred and eight bucks here-"
"Sir," Doctor Keller says calmly. "Please put away your money."
I pull out a Master Card. "How about a thousand? You got a bank machine here somewhere?"
"Sir, it's illegal to keep him here unnecessarily."
Fuck.
***
The orderlies none-too-gently drag LOBO into the small room where Doctor Keller and I waited.
And the second he sees me, Judas, his eyes light up.
"Hey buddy!" he beams. "I'm glad you're here. This is absolutely the best fucking resort I've ever been in!"
"Can I have a sedative?" I ask the doctor.
"The food kicks ass," LOBO continues, "and you don't have to wash dishes, do laundry, shave, bathe yourself or anything."
"No," says Doctor Keller.
"They even cushion all the walls and floors so space isn't wasted on furniture!"
"C'mon, doc," I says. "Look how happy he is. You're gonna kick this guy out into the street?"
"-Legless Jim is here! And you'll never guess who else ... "
"Napoleon?" I says, faking enthusiasm.
LOBO is dumbstruck. "How the fuck did you know? I thought that was classified ... !"
"It's in the brochure," I says.
Doctor Keller nods to the orderlies. "I don't think there's any need for the restraints."
But as they reach for the buckle on the back of the straight jacket, LOBO flinches away.
"Hey, hey!" he says, leaning forward. "Back off, buddy. It's chilly in here."
"Mister Curr," says Doctor Keller. "We're all here to once again ask you to please vacate the premisses."
"But this place is great!" LOBO insists. "Ethan would absolutely love it-"
Doctor Keller sighed. "Mister Curr. David. This isn't a resort. It's a mental health facility."
LOBO looks at the doc, puzzled. "So?"
"So we would like you to please leave."
I can tell by his voice LOBO was wearing Doctor Keller down.
An opportunity.
Maybe there's still some hope here.
"Losing your 'patients,' Doc?" LOBO grins.
"Very clever," he says.
"Let me get this straight," I says finally. "You found this guy sane?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "What the fuck kind of doctor are you? Where's your stethoscope?"
"I never said 'sane'. I said I want him out."
Between LOBO and I, we can sense the professional veneer cracking.
"Haven't you read my blog?" asks LOBO. "It's full of fairies and dragons and zombies and robots-"
"A creative endeavor of healthy expression," the doc counters.
"You are aware that he just signed a deal with the Fox Network, right?" I ask.
The doc had no answer for that one.
"How about for just a couple of months?" LOBO begs.
That did it. Doctor Keller abruptly stands and hurls his plastic clipboard violently against the wall, causing the orderlies to duck from the rather impressive makeshift shrapnel. Whirling on us wild-eyed, he tears off his expensive-looking glasses and crushes them in his hand.
Still squeezing the mangled wire frames tightly in his clenched bleeding fist, he screams "WOULD YOU TWO JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!?!
***
I press the button on my keychain, and the Mercedes' alarm chirps in the distance.
"They wouldn't even let me keep the jacket," LOBO whines dejectedly.
"They needed it for the doctor," I reply.
"Hey," says LOBO, grabbing my arm, stopping me. "Thanks for pulling for me in there."
"Don't mention it," I grumble.
Sulky and resigned, we start heading for the car again.
"Just lay off the craziness for a while, okay? Don't go running for President or anyth-"
I smack my hand over my mouth, even as LOBO's eyes light up.
[Mr. I]
I hand the clipboard back through the sliding glass window, and the nurse scrutinizes it with great interest through thick, black-framed Buddy Holly glasses you associate with the nerdy.
"Hm," she began. "No drugs or alcohol? Really?"
"No ma'am," I says. "He says he doesn't like sharing the credit."
That's when I start feeling my first pangs of guilt. At least when LOBO did drugs, he would tend to be a little more reclusive. And cautious. Manageable. But drug-free status only emboldened him. In his eyes, I think, he was just finally taking his rightful spot in the world with the rest of us clean lunatics.
Still, this was a kind of half-truth. LOBO and I have blown some occasional weed. But I don't feel like explaining to some nosy puritanical asshole how they should mind their own fucking business about people's private recreational pursuits. We're adults. And we're not robbing liquor stores and crashing cars.
It's commerce really. Dolly Madison and XBox should send us fruit baskets.
Fuck off.
"Are you the next of kin?" she asks without looking at me.
"No," I says. "Well, I'm not sure-"
Shit.
"No," I reply flatly.
"Your relationship with the patient?"
The official title, the one I put on my taxes, is "Assistant". But that doesn't really cover it, does it Ethan?
"Handler, I suppose."
"Really?" she says again.
Somebody get this woman a Thesaurus.
"Yeah. We work for Hawly Enterprises. Publishing. My guess is that the CEO is sort of David's benefactor. Like Jerry's Kids or something. Probably a public relations thing."
"Maybe he figures Mister Curr is safer where an eye can be kept on him."
"Yeah. Or maybe everyone else is safer that way."
"And he's insured by-" she squints at the scribbly clipboard. "Hawly Enterprises?"
"Yeah."
"Well, bless this Mr Hawly. He sounds like a wonderful and noble fellow, what with looking out for the handicapped and all."
And his tax exemptions.
"Yeah, I'd fuck him," I says dryly.
She glares at me, a little stunned. "Please have a seat," she says, grabbing the sliding window. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
Thud.
I hear her voice over the PA system as I'm flipping through archaic issues of Sports Illustrated and Time Magazine. "Doctor Keller, please report to ... "
Selecting an antiquated Sports Illustrated, I try not to make eye contact with anyone else in the waiting room.
Sitting, I notice I've unbuttoned my suit jacket completely on 'autopilot'. My belly -clear evidence of my new-found success- rolls out and swallows my belt whole.
I've grown pretty used to all this money.
I imagine how I'll be gingerly explaining to Ethan that while he was on vacation, my "charge" -and his best friend- was recently committed. This is serious. Even more serious than when LOBO took a shower at Phoebe's place and left hairs stuck in the soap, sink and bathtub, and she burned her own house down in utter revulsion.
No matter how much arson I've covered up, no matter how much insurance fraud I've committed, the addition of 'Handler' on my new resume won't seem very potent.
Goodbye salary, goodbye expense accounts.
I wonder if Ethan will let me keep my clothes, my car.
I'm the Predator Press whore.
It should be me in here.
Doctor Keller arrives, rescuing me from excruciating speculation over who is going to win the 2004 World Series.
I stand, and we shake hands.
"Thank you for coming," he says.
I was expecting a white lab coat. A stethoscope. A pager.
Doctor icons for people who watch too much television.
Doctor Keller is in khakis, a button-up checkered shirt, expensive preppie-leather shoes and a matching thin belt. He looks more like somebody who orders baked potato skins and a diet Coke at TGIF, and then stiffs the waitress on a tip. But the more I think about it, the more it made sense, really. In his line of work, it probably pays to not appear so clinical and imposing.
"How is he?" I ask as we walk past through the door. From the waiting room, it looks like a door anyway; once inside, the facade drops abruptly, revealing a massive cage.
I think of tiger traps you see in cartoons, the big hole covered with palm tree branches.
Long halls of white gloss, antiseptic smells, and steel mesh are the Feng Shui of Crackerland today.
You must be this nuts to take this ride.
I'm expecting something more like Arkham from Batman comics. Still, where good Doctor Keller let me down, the tidy innards of Bertram Asylum did not disappoint.
"He's, well ... " the doctor begins. Keller is walking really fast. I don't think visitors see this wing often. "Comfortable."
"Comfortable" is doctor-speak for sedated.
"Keeping him good and stoned, eh?" I ask, smiling. "Doc, I've spent the last year with that crazy bastard. You can drop the clinical euphemisms."
"No, I'm afraid you don't understand," he says.
Jesus Christ this guy walks fast. We stop at a massive steel door, and he slides his keycard through a protruding slot.
"See for yourself."
Through a large, thick, one-way glass window, we can see LOBO. In white pajamas and a straight jacket, he's sitting cross legged in the middle of an empty room.
He looks peaceful. Like he's meditating. You could easily imagine little glowing butterflies circling his empty head.
"Wow," I says. "I was expecting him to be really upset. You must've given him some really great shit!
"We don't have him on any medication," replies the doctor.
"Huh?"
"He's been a model patient. He's healthy, and no danger to himself or others."
"So why is he here?" I ask cautiously. I can already tell I don't like where this is going.
"Well, frankly, it seems he doesn't want to leave."
My fuckin jaw must've been on the floor. "Doc. I thought you brought me here to clear up some paperwork. Maybe even visit--!"
"No. We've been trying to release him for several hours now."
Covering my eyes, I fall back into a convenient viewing chair.
I forgot to unbutton my jacket, and the button cracks loudly against the glass.
LOBO stirs to the sound.
The doctor continues. "We were hoping you would help us make his departure, well," the doc thought for a moment, "voluntary."
I open my eyes, and watch LOBO struggle to his feet. He squints into the glass.
"But he's fucking crazy!" I insist.
"Yes. He has a lot of emotional and psychological problems, true. But nothing that warrants him staying here."
"But he's fucking crazy!" I repeat, pointing at the glass, dumbfounded. "Are you sure you're not a patient here? Where's your goddamned stethoscope? I need to see some fucking credentials, mister--"
"With the proper medication and counseling, he can be handled on an outpatient basis."
"Oh!" I chuckle, digging for my wallet. "Now I've gotcha. Listen, if you're angling for a bribe, boy are you barking up the right tree." I spread it open and break out the greenbacks. "I've got about three hundred and eight bucks here-"
"Sir," Doctor Keller says calmly. "Please put away your money."
I pull out a Master Card. "How about a thousand? You got a bank machine here somewhere?"
"Sir, it's illegal to keep him here unnecessarily."
Fuck.
The orderlies none-too-gently drag LOBO into the small room where Doctor Keller and I waited.
And the second he sees me, Judas, his eyes light up.
"Hey buddy!" he beams. "I'm glad you're here. This is absolutely the best fucking resort I've ever been in!"
"Can I have a sedative?" I ask the doctor.
"The food kicks ass," LOBO continues, "and you don't have to wash dishes, do laundry, shave, bathe yourself or anything."
"No," says Doctor Keller.
"They even cushion all the walls and floors so space isn't wasted on furniture!"
"C'mon, doc," I says. "Look how happy he is. You're gonna kick this guy out into the street?"
"-Legless Jim is here! And you'll never guess who else ... "
"Napoleon?" I says, faking enthusiasm.
LOBO is dumbstruck. "How the fuck did you know? I thought that was classified ... !"
"It's in the brochure," I says.
Doctor Keller nods to the orderlies. "I don't think there's any need for the restraints."
But as they reach for the buckle on the back of the straight jacket, LOBO flinches away.
"Hey, hey!" he says, leaning forward. "Back off, buddy. It's chilly in here."
"Mister Curr," says Doctor Keller. "We're all here to once again ask you to please vacate the premisses."
"But this place is great!" LOBO insists. "Ethan would absolutely love it-"
Doctor Keller sighed. "Mister Curr. David. This isn't a resort. It's a mental health facility."
LOBO looks at the doc, puzzled. "So?"
"So we would like you to please leave."
I can tell by his voice LOBO was wearing Doctor Keller down.
An opportunity.
Maybe there's still some hope here.
"Losing your 'patients,' Doc?" LOBO grins.
"Very clever," he says.
"Let me get this straight," I says finally. "You found this guy sane?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "What the fuck kind of doctor are you? Where's your stethoscope?"
"I never said 'sane'. I said I want him out."
Between LOBO and I, we can sense the professional veneer cracking.
"Haven't you read my blog?" asks LOBO. "It's full of fairies and dragons and zombies and robots-"
"A creative endeavor of healthy expression," the doc counters.
"You are aware that he just signed a deal with the Fox Network, right?" I ask.
The doc had no answer for that one.
"How about for just a couple of months?" LOBO begs.
That did it. Doctor Keller abruptly stands and hurls his plastic clipboard violently against the wall, causing the orderlies to duck from the rather impressive makeshift shrapnel. Whirling on us wild-eyed, he tears off his expensive-looking glasses and crushes them in his hand.
Still squeezing the mangled wire frames tightly in his clenched bleeding fist, he screams "WOULD YOU TWO JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!?!
I press the button on my keychain, and the Mercedes' alarm chirps in the distance.
"They wouldn't even let me keep the jacket," LOBO whines dejectedly.
"They needed it for the doctor," I reply.
"Hey," says LOBO, grabbing my arm, stopping me. "Thanks for pulling for me in there."
"Don't mention it," I grumble.
Sulky and resigned, we start heading for the car again.
"Just lay off the craziness for a while, okay? Don't go running for President or anyth-"
I smack my hand over my mouth, even as LOBO's eyes light up.
Sunday
Meltdown
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Saint Peter had stepped momentarily away from his desk, leaving Robot LOBO to stare at the walls.
Beep, Beep.
It seemed that the computer tracking LOBO's sins was suddenly clocking them at an alarming frequency.
Beep, Beep.
And here he was alone with it.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO resisted the binary impulses to purge the files.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO re-prioritized the automatic prompts insisting he hack into the Cosmic Mainframe and unlock the Secrets of the Known and Unknown Universe.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO shut down the digital commands insisting he discern who killed him and why, and then transmitting the information to the eighty-six other Robot LOBOs, thereby initiating swift and lethal payback.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's phone number.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO disengaged his cerebral stimulator, and its directive to put David Lee Roth back in Van Halen.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO revised his autopilot's stipulation that he steal Saint Peter's banking information and credit card numbers.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO ignored the lines of code compelling him to go back in time and kill George Lucas immediately after the release of The Empire Strikes Back.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO bypassed his secondary drive signature's requisition that Sid Vicious never meets Nancy Spungeon.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO fought his back-up system's sequenced instructions that the The Electric Slide, The Macarena, and Achy-Breaky Heart never be released.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's Phone number (again).
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO sublimated the tertiary drive core urging him to download illegal copies of music.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO even cancelled the elaborate Faux-LOBO programming, impelling him to browse porno.
Beep, Beep.
Sometimes I feel I've got to ...
Beep, Beep.
... get away, I've got to ...
Beep, Beep.
... get away ...
Beep, Beep.
... Robot LOBO was getting very tired and confused trying to behave ...
Beep, Beep.
... and now he had that damned Soft Cell song stuck in his head ...
[Mr. I]
Saint Peter had stepped momentarily away from his desk, leaving Robot LOBO to stare at the walls.
Beep, Beep.
It seemed that the computer tracking LOBO's sins was suddenly clocking them at an alarming frequency.
Beep, Beep.
And here he was alone with it.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO resisted the binary impulses to purge the files.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO re-prioritized the automatic prompts insisting he hack into the Cosmic Mainframe and unlock the Secrets of the Known and Unknown Universe.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO shut down the digital commands insisting he discern who killed him and why, and then transmitting the information to the eighty-six other Robot LOBOs, thereby initiating swift and lethal payback.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's phone number.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO disengaged his cerebral stimulator, and its directive to put David Lee Roth back in Van Halen.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO revised his autopilot's stipulation that he steal Saint Peter's banking information and credit card numbers.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO ignored the lines of code compelling him to go back in time and kill George Lucas immediately after the release of The Empire Strikes Back.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO bypassed his secondary drive signature's requisition that Sid Vicious never meets Nancy Spungeon.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO fought his back-up system's sequenced instructions that the The Electric Slide, The Macarena, and Achy-Breaky Heart never be released.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's Phone number (again).
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO sublimated the tertiary drive core urging him to download illegal copies of music.
Beep, Beep.
Robot LOBO even cancelled the elaborate Faux-LOBO programming, impelling him to browse porno.
Beep, Beep.
Sometimes I feel I've got to ...
Beep, Beep.
... get away, I've got to ...
Beep, Beep.
... get away ...
Beep, Beep.
... Robot LOBO was getting very tired and confused trying to behave ...
Beep, Beep.
... and now he had that damned Soft Cell song stuck in his head ...
Silver Bullet
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
LOBO woke fourteen hours later.
Weary of waking up in strange cities handcuffed and dangling from highway overpasses, he had more or less quit drinking and drugging since mid-2005. Still, there was a certain anxiety involved in waking up and not knowing where he was; digging his nails into the couch until his knuckles were white, he clung for dear life until the book fell off his face and he realized he was in one of Ethan's spacious offices.
He waited a few moments quietly for his heart to stop racing.
Aside from this daily whiplash into consciousness, morning minus a raging hangover augmented with vertigo and overbearing automobile exhaust wasn't an entirely bad experience; he yawned and stretched, quietly contemplating breakfast in the receding fog of deep sleep.
The clock said 8:00.
Morning, presumably.
The harsh daylight probed the still room aggressively through the blinds he separated with his fingers. The streets below the Hawly Centre were bustling with activity.
A wonderful and familiar aroma crept in the room, and a thick sputtering sound came from the reception area. Simultaneously rubbing his eyes and scratching his balls, he blearily wandered out.
***
Empty.
Sapphire was late.
This really wasn't that uncommon as Sapphire moonlighted as a stripper. And given the noble, selfless nature of her alternate career choice, Ethan tended to give a lot of latitude when it came to her occasional tardiness.
The silvery coffee maker, on a timer set up the night before, dutifully began it's routine operation surrounded by eight equally-chromed little mugs. On the ornate table it rested was a small sign that read:
Please help yourself.
And right under that, it read:
(Except for LOBO)
A rather selective reader, LOBO ignored the second half of the sign.
Ethan strictly forbid LOBO's consumption of coffee.
But Ethan was in Mesopotamia.
Or Germany.
Or whatever.
***
Sapphire breathlessly hustled out of the elevator into the opulent hallway at around 8:10, and no sooner did her key touch the hand-carved double doors when the doors exploded open.
A bug-eyed, twitching LOBO pounced her in a fierce embrace.
"HiSapphireI'msogladtoseeyou Youlookbeautifulthismorningasalways Andyoucertainlydon'tneedaboobjob MrInsanityisjustanassholeandtryingtoexploityouforyourgoodies Icouldn'tfindatoothbrush IsthatpursearealPrada?It'sreallynicequalityleather Therearen'tanymessagesandIvacuumedthewholefloorandscrubbedtheceiling AndIalsodidEthan'staxessoyouwouldn'thavetogotoH&RBlocktomorrow."
[quick breath]
"Doyouwantanythingforlunch? IamthinkingCantoneseormaybeKorean I'mdefinitelyupforsomethingspicy PleaseforgivemeasImustbegoing IhavetofindareallytallbuildingsoIcanjumpintoouterspace IthinktheMarsRovermightneedanoilchangeandtirepressurechecked Bye!"
And he was gone.
In the office, Sapphire found a coffee cup on the floor next to the remnants of two sugar packets and a tiny plastic dairy creamer cup.
"Fuck!", she exclaimed as she ran for the phone.
*****
The 128th floor of the Montgomery Building, six miles away, was the Penthouse.
It was also the home office of the Fox Network local affiliate.
"Come on people," demanded the guy in a suit into an intercom sitting at the end of a long oak table. "Our ratings are completely in the toilet! We need a magic bullet here. Something fresh. Like a story about a rag-tag team of misfit underdog athletes who exceed everyone's expectations and triumph in the end. Or a prince giving up his throne so he can marry his one true love, a peasant girl that his parents can't stand. Or a love story about an creepy looking weird loser that has no money and somehow endears himself to some unlikely woman way too hot for him. Or maybe a group of pretentious, wisecracking yuppies making callow observations about the inane meaninglessness of their lives. Or a hospital show about the rigors of being brilliant, sexy emergency room doctors --or maybe lawyers-- whose lives are complicated by romance, professional ethics, ambition, and the passion for their careers. Has anyone ever done feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs? Everyone would watch shows based on feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs. Dammit people, we need edgy!"
"How about a reality show?" yells a prim, studious-looking woman in glasses way at the other end.
"Brilliant, Miss Fielding!" says suit guy into the plastic speaker. "How soon can we get it?"
"We're already in production, Mr Ward," she assured him. "Would you like to hear the premise?"
"Not really. What's it called?"
"Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire"
"I like it!"
"We're having some casting difficulties, however," she noted.
"Like what?"
"Well, we've already cast billionaire heiress Lexus Hilton as the hot single millionairess, and we've got Chip Intel as the ringer to win. But what we need is a sexist, unemployed, multi-phobic crazy broke loser slob as the foil. We can't seem to find anyone quite crude, repugnant, and simultaneously animated enough to pull it off."
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
Mr Ward pressed the intercom. "What's going on? Is there a fire? And do we have any available cameras to film the screaming casualties of the tragic incident?"
"No Mr. Ward," replied a different disembodied voice. "But I think you might want to come out to the reception area right away!"
***
Dripping sweat from running six miles and then up 128 flights of stairs, a random pile of human lie on it's face, tangled impossibly in the receptionist's phone cord.
"I'mtellinyoupeopleifsomeonedoesn'tcallNASAandtellemI'mgonnabelatetheFBIsgonnacomedownonthisplace andthenyou'llallbetotallyscrewed!!!" He wheezed breathlessly, flailing violently against the ground.
A security guard, getting a little too close, screamed as the frothing, foaming figure sunk it's teeth into his ankle.
"What the hell is that?" asked Mr. Ward, poking the snapping, snarling creature with a long stick.
"I don't know, sir," replied Miss Fielding, approaching cautiously.
Turning, LOBO got an eyeful of Miss Fielding's open-toed shoes at point-blank.
He screamed.
"GET THOSE SCALY HALITOSIS-RIDDLED TALONS THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!"
"Miss Fielding," grinned Mr. Ward to the retreating woman, pointing. "Get this man a contract!"
[Mr. I]
LOBO woke fourteen hours later.
Weary of waking up in strange cities handcuffed and dangling from highway overpasses, he had more or less quit drinking and drugging since mid-2005. Still, there was a certain anxiety involved in waking up and not knowing where he was; digging his nails into the couch until his knuckles were white, he clung for dear life until the book fell off his face and he realized he was in one of Ethan's spacious offices.
He waited a few moments quietly for his heart to stop racing.
Aside from this daily whiplash into consciousness, morning minus a raging hangover augmented with vertigo and overbearing automobile exhaust wasn't an entirely bad experience; he yawned and stretched, quietly contemplating breakfast in the receding fog of deep sleep.
The clock said 8:00.
Morning, presumably.
The harsh daylight probed the still room aggressively through the blinds he separated with his fingers. The streets below the Hawly Centre were bustling with activity.
A wonderful and familiar aroma crept in the room, and a thick sputtering sound came from the reception area. Simultaneously rubbing his eyes and scratching his balls, he blearily wandered out.
Empty.
Sapphire was late.
This really wasn't that uncommon as Sapphire moonlighted as a stripper. And given the noble, selfless nature of her alternate career choice, Ethan tended to give a lot of latitude when it came to her occasional tardiness.
The silvery coffee maker, on a timer set up the night before, dutifully began it's routine operation surrounded by eight equally-chromed little mugs. On the ornate table it rested was a small sign that read:
And right under that, it read:
A rather selective reader, LOBO ignored the second half of the sign.
Ethan strictly forbid LOBO's consumption of coffee.
But Ethan was in Mesopotamia.
Or Germany.
Or whatever.
Sapphire breathlessly hustled out of the elevator into the opulent hallway at around 8:10, and no sooner did her key touch the hand-carved double doors when the doors exploded open.
A bug-eyed, twitching LOBO pounced her in a fierce embrace.
"HiSapphireI'msogladtoseeyou Youlookbeautifulthismorningasalways Andyoucertainlydon'tneedaboobjob MrInsanityisjustanassholeandtryingtoexploityouforyourgoodies Icouldn'tfindatoothbrush IsthatpursearealPrada?It'sreallynicequalityleather Therearen'tanymessagesandIvacuumedthewholefloorandscrubbedtheceiling AndIalsodidEthan'staxessoyouwouldn'thavetogotoH&RBlocktomorrow."
[quick breath]
"Doyouwantanythingforlunch? IamthinkingCantoneseormaybeKorean I'mdefinitelyupforsomethingspicy PleaseforgivemeasImustbegoing IhavetofindareallytallbuildingsoIcanjumpintoouterspace IthinktheMarsRovermightneedanoilchangeandtirepressurechecked Bye!"
And he was gone.
In the office, Sapphire found a coffee cup on the floor next to the remnants of two sugar packets and a tiny plastic dairy creamer cup.
"Fuck!", she exclaimed as she ran for the phone.
The 128th floor of the Montgomery Building, six miles away, was the Penthouse.
It was also the home office of the Fox Network local affiliate.
"Come on people," demanded the guy in a suit into an intercom sitting at the end of a long oak table. "Our ratings are completely in the toilet! We need a magic bullet here. Something fresh. Like a story about a rag-tag team of misfit underdog athletes who exceed everyone's expectations and triumph in the end. Or a prince giving up his throne so he can marry his one true love, a peasant girl that his parents can't stand. Or a love story about an creepy looking weird loser that has no money and somehow endears himself to some unlikely woman way too hot for him. Or maybe a group of pretentious, wisecracking yuppies making callow observations about the inane meaninglessness of their lives. Or a hospital show about the rigors of being brilliant, sexy emergency room doctors --or maybe lawyers-- whose lives are complicated by romance, professional ethics, ambition, and the passion for their careers. Has anyone ever done feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs? Everyone would watch shows based on feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs. Dammit people, we need edgy!"
"How about a reality show?" yells a prim, studious-looking woman in glasses way at the other end.
"Brilliant, Miss Fielding!" says suit guy into the plastic speaker. "How soon can we get it?"
"We're already in production, Mr Ward," she assured him. "Would you like to hear the premise?"
"Not really. What's it called?"
"Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire"
"I like it!"
"We're having some casting difficulties, however," she noted.
"Like what?"
"Well, we've already cast billionaire heiress Lexus Hilton as the hot single millionairess, and we've got Chip Intel as the ringer to win. But what we need is a sexist, unemployed, multi-phobic crazy broke loser slob as the foil. We can't seem to find anyone quite crude, repugnant, and simultaneously animated enough to pull it off."
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
Mr Ward pressed the intercom. "What's going on? Is there a fire? And do we have any available cameras to film the screaming casualties of the tragic incident?"
"No Mr. Ward," replied a different disembodied voice. "But I think you might want to come out to the reception area right away!"
Dripping sweat from running six miles and then up 128 flights of stairs, a random pile of human lie on it's face, tangled impossibly in the receptionist's phone cord.
"I'mtellinyoupeopleifsomeonedoesn'tcallNASAandtellemI'mgonnabelatetheFBIsgonnacomedownonthisplace andthenyou'llallbetotallyscrewed!!!" He wheezed breathlessly, flailing violently against the ground.
A security guard, getting a little too close, screamed as the frothing, foaming figure sunk it's teeth into his ankle.
"What the hell is that?" asked Mr. Ward, poking the snapping, snarling creature with a long stick.
"I don't know, sir," replied Miss Fielding, approaching cautiously.
Turning, LOBO got an eyeful of Miss Fielding's open-toed shoes at point-blank.
He screamed.
"GET THOSE SCALY HALITOSIS-RIDDLED TALONS THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!"
"Miss Fielding," grinned Mr. Ward to the retreating woman, pointing. "Get this man a contract!"
Saturday
The Lexicon Border
From : LOBO (-----------@hotmail.com)
Sent : Saturday, July 20, 2006 9:53 PM
To : Ethan (-----------@hotmail.com)
CC : The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Subject : Naked Disfigured Twister® Midgets!!!
How'z the "trip to Germany" going? I know you an Dayle are supposed to be "on vacation", so I won't tell anyone that you're a super-secret double agent with a big bush on your helmet, climbing through razorwire in the eastern Mesopotamian DMZ with sensitive microfilm at three o'clock this time. In fact, I just tell everybody you took Dayle to Disneyland ... although that makes the razorwire sound a lot more fun.
Phoebe was really jazzed over that fantastic fruit basket you sent. I was jealous at first, but then I found out that they don't make pork chop baskets. Now I'm copyrighting the idea; big lean cuts decorated with chicken wings and long strips of crispy bacon, complimented with a big bottle of vintage A1 sauce, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and heart medication. And then when I'm filthy rich from it, I'll buy Germany and have it airlifted here so you don't have to fly as far.
(If Europe bitches about the big hole, I'll replace it with New Jersey.)
Anyways, all is quiet. Mr Insanity is "auditioning" new roomies, 'an the last one was --oddly enough-- German. Cute too! And complete with the six-foot two blonde and blue-eyed Aryan boyfriend. She seemed a little preoccupied with how small the oven is, but overall it went pretty well; we're already boning up on our Riverdancing techniques.
Everyone says "Hi!", and we miss ya!
LOBO
Press Paws
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"Consider how he thinks. The dinosaur, the Bronze Age, the Industrial Revolution, World War II ... along with the rest of history, they are all BL and cannot possibly have any effect on him today. As a consequence, he considers it all entirely irrelevant."
"BL?"
"Before LOBO."
"Huh."
The computer beeped twice. Some kind of alert. Saint Peter turned and read the new info through the bottom of his glasses. "Says here LOBO is currently engaged in harassing the elderly."
"Is it in traffic?"
"No. That wouldn't count."
*****
LOBO's eyes alternated from the thick file to Mister and Misses Driskel in a cold and calculating manner.
"Farmers, eh?" he sighed finally.
Theodore Lawrence Driskel of Clawson City, Utah, was quite frazzled. They had driven twenty hours to get here, and the rather aggressive "interview" was now in it's third hour. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses with shaky, liver spotted hands. "Yes sir."
Examining the file, LOBO's eyebrows lifted. "Soybeans?"
"Yes."
"I fucking hate soybeans" LOBO growled.
Ellenor Jean Driskel --AKA "Ella"-- interupted. "We also grow green beans and corn--"
"--Silence!" LOBO's icy glare skewered her. "I'll get to you in a minute," he snarled. Spreading the file with his fingers, he tapped his fingers on Ethan's broad desk. "So you both have made roughly $45,000 a year for the last ten years, have excellent, well, immaculate credit, with the exception of filing bankruptcy in 1974."
Theodore and Ella looked at each other in mild discomfort.
"Relax," says LOBO, smiling like a hungry python. "That's why we're here. You're doing fine." He browsed the files some more. "Psychological profiles are good. And you both passed the physical and drug test with flying colors." He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "No criminal record?"
"No sir," replied Mister Driskel. "We're regular church-going, God-fearin plain folk. Ella plays the organ for the Sunday service."
"No criminal record whatsoever?" LOBO inquired.
"No sir," repeated Mr. Driskel.
LOBO sighed, slipping a blue sheet of paper out from under the stack. "Well, unfortunately, we've found this."
It was a Chicago parking ticket from 1968.
"I'm sorry you've come all this way," he continued, "but I'm afraid this responsibility cannot be just fobbed off to common liars and criminals."
Ella burst into tears. "I'm sorry Theo! I never told you--"
Theodore Driskel patted Ella's hand comfortingly.
"--the Democratic National Convention was so packed. I only wanted to drop off some cookies and bandages for the protesters."
LOBO shook his head disappointedly. "As I said, I'm sorry. Please see yourselves out as I have a very busy schedule."
"So that's it then?" said Mister Driskel, squeezing Ella's hand gently. "We're getting turned down because of a forty year old parking ticket?"
"No," replied LOBO coolly. "You're getting turned down because your wife is a filthy lying anarchist and a cheap, wrinkled nationalist pinko whore. We could've won Vietnam if not for you peacenick Abbie Hoffmanites--!"
"--Now just a minute young man!" demanded Mister Driskel, standing. "I don't know exactly who you think you are--"
LOBO looked up with great interest as Mister Driskel rolled up his flannel sleeves.
"--but I'm not going to sit here and take you insulting my wife any longer!"
LOBO leaned back in Ethan's chair, grinning. "Fiery! Protective! ... I like that." Pulling out a long, bulleted checklist, he ticked off two points. "That put you at a final score of 210 out of a possible 300." Smiling, he folded his hands together and pointed roughly at the old couple with his paralleled index fingers. "And that's marginally passable".
Mister Driskel froze, confused. There was a stunned silence, interrupted periodically by Ella heavy sobbing.
LOBO opened a deep drawer, and produced a tiny white and brown spotted kitten. "Congratulations. It's name is Meowy." Recently informed that it's impossible to tell a cat's sex for several weeks by Ethan, LOBO had tried to stop randomly assigning genders to them. It was, after all, a somewhat important matter, and he had decided to give them some privacy in that regard.
Mister Driskel took the miniscule animal, and sat, arm around Ella as she heaved uncontrollably.
"There there, Emma," soothed LOBO as he offered a tissue. "You understand that a rigorous screening process in necessary, right?
"That's Ella," corrected Mr. Driskel.
"Whatever. Say, are you guys hungry?"
"Well, actually ... " sniffed Ella.
"Well, too bad you can't stay. But there's a pancake house right up the road on the way to the freeway. You can go there right after you fill out all the paperwork Miss Sapphire has for you on the way out. Goodbye."
The Driskels collected themselves, and hobbled for the door.
"Oh," added LOBO, standing to see them out. "One more thing. Meowy gets milk and Eukanoba everyday. And albacore tuna on Sundays ... not that crap tuna."
"Got it," says Mister Driskel.
"And I'll be checking up periodically," continued LOBO. "If Meowy isn't getting his shots regularly and very happy in his new home, I'll come to Clawson City, cut your fucking commie nuts off, and feed 'em to Phil in a lobster bisque."
***
LOBO walked in and simply collapsed on the couch.
"How'd it go?" I asked with mild interest.
"Well, I found a home for Meowy," he replied.
"You've been at this for weeks," I says. "How many have you found homes for so far?"
"Two," said LOBO. "But I'm rethinking the Stillsons. I think I could do better for Bob."
"You've really got to let this go at some point."
"Maybe." LOBO picked up his paperback copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Choke. Again I watched. I've never actually witnessed LOBO read before, and that particular book has been sitting --upside-down and split open almost perfectly in the center-- on the coffee table, for over six months unmoved. It left a dustless clean rectangle.
And just as I suspected, LOBO lay back and set the book over his eyes.
"I guess you heard that the Liberty Bell got cracked by the trucking company," I says.
"Yeah. Now nobody'll want the damn thing."
"Did you try ebay?"
"Nah. I already got Max, Brighta and Vetter trying to get rid of it. I told 'em to sneak into some kind of battle somewhere and ditch it so's nobody will suspect it was my fault."
A few quiet minutes passed.
"Did me being alive really fuck up Sapphire's boob job?" he finally inquired.
"Amongst other things, yes."
"How come nobody tried to talk her out of it?"
"Because whenever women get a boob job, they're typically really anxious to show them off."
"She doesn't need a boob job," says LOBO from under the book.
"But that's not really the point, is it?" I was losing interest in this conversation fast, not particularly interested in LOBO's pontification on the matter. Still, I couldn't resist. "How would you know if Sapphire needs a boob job? And for that matter, why do you care?"
"I guess I'm just not a big fan of unnecessary surgeries I suppose. She's already beautiful."
"But then she would be beautiful and have gigantic cans. I'm not following you here. What are you, gay?"
LOBO sighed. "Look, if my ex-wife didn't make me gay, nothing will." He paused. "I guess I'm just a little skeptical when I hear about women putting themselves through excruciating and expensive pain voluntarily. Particularly when they say that 'I'm doing it for myself' bullshit. I don't get it."
"Well having babies isn't exactly a picnic. And I hear kids end up costing hundreds of bucks what with college and all."
Pause.
"Yeah, maybe they are all fuckin nuts."
And LOBO fell asleep.
[Mr. I]
"Consider how he thinks. The dinosaur, the Bronze Age, the Industrial Revolution, World War II ... along with the rest of history, they are all BL and cannot possibly have any effect on him today. As a consequence, he considers it all entirely irrelevant."
"BL?"
"Before LOBO."
"Huh."
The computer beeped twice. Some kind of alert. Saint Peter turned and read the new info through the bottom of his glasses. "Says here LOBO is currently engaged in harassing the elderly."
"Is it in traffic?"
"No. That wouldn't count."
LOBO's eyes alternated from the thick file to Mister and Misses Driskel in a cold and calculating manner.
"Farmers, eh?" he sighed finally.
Theodore Lawrence Driskel of Clawson City, Utah, was quite frazzled. They had driven twenty hours to get here, and the rather aggressive "interview" was now in it's third hour. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses with shaky, liver spotted hands. "Yes sir."
Examining the file, LOBO's eyebrows lifted. "Soybeans?"
"Yes."
"I fucking hate soybeans" LOBO growled.
Ellenor Jean Driskel --AKA "Ella"-- interupted. "We also grow green beans and corn--"
"--Silence!" LOBO's icy glare skewered her. "I'll get to you in a minute," he snarled. Spreading the file with his fingers, he tapped his fingers on Ethan's broad desk. "So you both have made roughly $45,000 a year for the last ten years, have excellent, well, immaculate credit, with the exception of filing bankruptcy in 1974."
Theodore and Ella looked at each other in mild discomfort.
"Relax," says LOBO, smiling like a hungry python. "That's why we're here. You're doing fine." He browsed the files some more. "Psychological profiles are good. And you both passed the physical and drug test with flying colors." He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "No criminal record?"
"No sir," replied Mister Driskel. "We're regular church-going, God-fearin plain folk. Ella plays the organ for the Sunday service."
"No criminal record whatsoever?" LOBO inquired.
"No sir," repeated Mr. Driskel.
LOBO sighed, slipping a blue sheet of paper out from under the stack. "Well, unfortunately, we've found this."
It was a Chicago parking ticket from 1968.
"I'm sorry you've come all this way," he continued, "but I'm afraid this responsibility cannot be just fobbed off to common liars and criminals."
Ella burst into tears. "I'm sorry Theo! I never told you--"
Theodore Driskel patted Ella's hand comfortingly.
"--the Democratic National Convention was so packed. I only wanted to drop off some cookies and bandages for the protesters."
LOBO shook his head disappointedly. "As I said, I'm sorry. Please see yourselves out as I have a very busy schedule."
"So that's it then?" said Mister Driskel, squeezing Ella's hand gently. "We're getting turned down because of a forty year old parking ticket?"
"No," replied LOBO coolly. "You're getting turned down because your wife is a filthy lying anarchist and a cheap, wrinkled nationalist pinko whore. We could've won Vietnam if not for you peacenick Abbie Hoffmanites--!"
"--Now just a minute young man!" demanded Mister Driskel, standing. "I don't know exactly who you think you are--"
LOBO looked up with great interest as Mister Driskel rolled up his flannel sleeves.
"--but I'm not going to sit here and take you insulting my wife any longer!"
LOBO leaned back in Ethan's chair, grinning. "Fiery! Protective! ... I like that." Pulling out a long, bulleted checklist, he ticked off two points. "That put you at a final score of 210 out of a possible 300." Smiling, he folded his hands together and pointed roughly at the old couple with his paralleled index fingers. "And that's marginally passable".
Mister Driskel froze, confused. There was a stunned silence, interrupted periodically by Ella heavy sobbing.
LOBO opened a deep drawer, and produced a tiny white and brown spotted kitten. "Congratulations. It's name is Meowy." Recently informed that it's impossible to tell a cat's sex for several weeks by Ethan, LOBO had tried to stop randomly assigning genders to them. It was, after all, a somewhat important matter, and he had decided to give them some privacy in that regard.
Mister Driskel took the miniscule animal, and sat, arm around Ella as she heaved uncontrollably.
"There there, Emma," soothed LOBO as he offered a tissue. "You understand that a rigorous screening process in necessary, right?
"That's Ella," corrected Mr. Driskel.
"Whatever. Say, are you guys hungry?"
"Well, actually ... " sniffed Ella.
"Well, too bad you can't stay. But there's a pancake house right up the road on the way to the freeway. You can go there right after you fill out all the paperwork Miss Sapphire has for you on the way out. Goodbye."
The Driskels collected themselves, and hobbled for the door.
"Oh," added LOBO, standing to see them out. "One more thing. Meowy gets milk and Eukanoba everyday. And albacore tuna on Sundays ... not that crap tuna."
"Got it," says Mister Driskel.
"And I'll be checking up periodically," continued LOBO. "If Meowy isn't getting his shots regularly and very happy in his new home, I'll come to Clawson City, cut your fucking commie nuts off, and feed 'em to Phil in a lobster bisque."
LOBO walked in and simply collapsed on the couch.
"How'd it go?" I asked with mild interest.
"Well, I found a home for Meowy," he replied.
"You've been at this for weeks," I says. "How many have you found homes for so far?"
"Two," said LOBO. "But I'm rethinking the Stillsons. I think I could do better for Bob."
"You've really got to let this go at some point."
"Maybe." LOBO picked up his paperback copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Choke. Again I watched. I've never actually witnessed LOBO read before, and that particular book has been sitting --upside-down and split open almost perfectly in the center-- on the coffee table, for over six months unmoved. It left a dustless clean rectangle.
And just as I suspected, LOBO lay back and set the book over his eyes.
"I guess you heard that the Liberty Bell got cracked by the trucking company," I says.
"Yeah. Now nobody'll want the damn thing."
"Did you try ebay?"
"Nah. I already got Max, Brighta and Vetter trying to get rid of it. I told 'em to sneak into some kind of battle somewhere and ditch it so's nobody will suspect it was my fault."
A few quiet minutes passed.
"Did me being alive really fuck up Sapphire's boob job?" he finally inquired.
"Amongst other things, yes."
"How come nobody tried to talk her out of it?"
"Because whenever women get a boob job, they're typically really anxious to show them off."
"She doesn't need a boob job," says LOBO from under the book.
"But that's not really the point, is it?" I was losing interest in this conversation fast, not particularly interested in LOBO's pontification on the matter. Still, I couldn't resist. "How would you know if Sapphire needs a boob job? And for that matter, why do you care?"
"I guess I'm just not a big fan of unnecessary surgeries I suppose. She's already beautiful."
"But then she would be beautiful and have gigantic cans. I'm not following you here. What are you, gay?"
LOBO sighed. "Look, if my ex-wife didn't make me gay, nothing will." He paused. "I guess I'm just a little skeptical when I hear about women putting themselves through excruciating and expensive pain voluntarily. Particularly when they say that 'I'm doing it for myself' bullshit. I don't get it."
"Well having babies isn't exactly a picnic. And I hear kids end up costing hundreds of bucks what with college and all."
Pause.
"Yeah, maybe they are all fuckin nuts."
And LOBO fell asleep.
Tuesday
A Proud New Sponsor
Predator Press
Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?
Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?
Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *
Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky
Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!
* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.
If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.
Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?
Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?
Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *
by Jabberwocky
Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!
* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.
If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.
Sunday
Suture Self
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Mr Insanity acts like I don't even read Predator Press.
I've been with Predator Press since its inception: an outrageously successful profit machine dreamed up by Ethan after thirty one shots of tequila.
So when that rookie prick "Mr. Insanity" [if that's your real name] writes sardonically and disparagingly about me being a veteran of World War L --I mean the REALLY 'Big One'-- it annoys me that I still have my legs and can't sue the government and beg for scraps in righteous indignity.
But I'll fix that little fuck.
I've got the Liberty Bell in my possession.
No, no bullshit. I have the bona-fide one-and-only 'Liberty Bell'
Before it was cracked.
I'm havin it trucked to my funeral. And havin it dumped right in front of that little prick.
Explain that, bitch.
[LOBO]
Mr Insanity acts like I don't even read Predator Press.
I've been with Predator Press since its inception: an outrageously successful profit machine dreamed up by Ethan after thirty one shots of tequila.
So when that rookie prick "Mr. Insanity" [if that's your real name] writes sardonically and disparagingly about me being a veteran of World War L --I mean the REALLY 'Big One'-- it annoys me that I still have my legs and can't sue the government and beg for scraps in righteous indignity.
But I'll fix that little fuck.
I've got the Liberty Bell in my possession.
No, no bullshit. I have the bona-fide one-and-only 'Liberty Bell'
Before it was cracked.
I'm havin it trucked to my funeral. And havin it dumped right in front of that little prick.
Explain that, bitch.
Afterglow
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"Cancel ... my ... subscription ... to ... Highlights!" LOBO wheezed.
An then he fell over dead.
***
"'Highlights', huh?" I says. "Doesn't he subscribe to The Economist, U.S News, Scientific American, and World Report too?"
"He probably forgot," says Ethan, lighting his pipe. "He just gets those to make the mailman think he's smart."
I added them to my list. "And what about 'PETA' magazine?"
"Already cancelled. Did it when he found out that steel wool doesn't come from robot sheep."
I crossed off 'PETA subscription'.
"How’s the eulogy coming?"
The eulogy was a sore spot. "You know, Ethan? I don't appreciate you risking me getting brain damage by pulling me prematurely out of a coma because none of you jerks wanted to wax enthusiastic about that asshole ."
"We figured brain damage could only help."
***
The funeral plans were overly-complex.
For starters, we hadda find a tuxedo for a guy that never wore anything beyond Reeboks, jeans, and T-shirts bearing bumper-sticker humor. LOBO thought that "I'm With Stupid" was both a prolific literary insight to contemporary American genius, and a credit to the fashion world.
"It won't look natural at all," complained Phoebe.
"We could add some audio of him snoring," I suggested sarcastically.
***
Fortuitously, Ethan had bought shit-tons of life insurance, and were all going to the funeral in limos.
Solid gold limos.
I got sidetracked from writing the eulogy because I was just too busy coming out of a coma: everyone else, it seems, was too busy shopping. So even as I was groggily wheelchaired out of the hospital, I was already 'behind the eight ball' so to speak.
I drew out the scribbled Wal-Mart receipt, and rehearsed what I had so far.
"Brethren, we are gathered here today to celebrate the death of a habeas-corpus, as thyith frolicked with Hebrew Psalm found in The Hebrew Top 40 with hip Psalm-spinmeister Luke ‘97, yadda, yadda, yadda, Thank you for shopping at Wal-mart, Amen."
They just stared at me.
"Any questions?" I asked.
Long, awkward, dead silence.
"That's terrible," Phoebe says finally, grabbing the receipt.
"I know. But Kmart wanted four bucks for the same light bulbs."
"I mean this eulogy!" she glared.
"Yeah," says Ethan. "Jesus Christ! Can’t you ‘punch it up’ a little? You're writing an idiot's eulogy, not a Kevin Costner vehicle."
"C'mon," I says, annoyed. "The only reason we're even here making this spectacle is 'cuz you made us 1.3 million apiece with that crafty life insurance scam."
"Life Insurance Plan," Ethan corrected.
"Well," I says, taking the receipt back from Phoebe. "Any ideas?" Pencil tip to the paper, I stood alertly ready to jot all the profound new suggestions they would be completely unable to supply.
"He's probably never kicked a puppy," piped Sapphire after a long pause.
"... kicked ... a ... puppy ..." I wrote.
Phoebe was mortified. "This is what you call 'honoring the dead'?"
Ethan took Phoebe's hand in a comforting manner. "Honey," he says soothingly. "It's LOBO. No stripper in her right mind would do a funeral. It's completely tasteless--"
"This goddamn limo is huge!" yelled Beautiful White Stallion.
"--so we're doing the next-best thing by pretending to honor him," Ethan finished, scowling a the asshole horse.
"We're getting the insurance checks at the service?" I asked.
Ethan nodded. "I figured that was the only way I could get you guys to go."
An they all did the Sign of the Cross --belly, forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder-- with any nearby appendage available; the Twister game was in double-overtime.
"You think he's in Hell?" asks Sapphire.
"Jesus, lets hope so." Ethan says. Seeing the suddenly long faces, he tried to brighten things up a bit. "So you're rich now, people. What are you gonna do with all that dough?"
"Well, I'm totally sick of workin' for crazies," I breathe. "I've got an application in as a producer for Phil Specter."
"Good move," he says.
"What about you?" I ask, kinda reflexively
He frowned in serious thought, shrugging. "Well, me an Dayle got this beachfront property in Rio we've been looking at. I think I'm ready to lay out on a beach for a while. What about you, Sapphire?"
"Well, I'm getting a boob job from Ferrari for starters."
"Italy is really beautiful this time of year," Ethan approved. Everyone 'splitting the country' for a while was probably a good idea.
Phoebe was pissed. "Goddamn it people!" she demanded. "LOBO is dead. Can't we be serious for a day to pay our respects to the deceased?"
Ethan laughed. "Pay our respects to a guy who refused to send a fax on anything but bond paper?
"Or the self-proclaimed veteran of World Wars One, Two, Five, L, and pi?" I added.
"Or the only man ever arrested for wanton and reckless abuse of the Dewey Decimal System?" asked Sapphire.
"Is that a true story?" asked Phoebe.
"Supposedly," says Ethan. "I heard his mom tell it once."
"I thought LOBO was an orphan," inquired Sapphire.
"Well, that's what his parents tell everyone."
"Alright," Beautiful White Stallion demanded. "Who shit on the floor?"
***
Phil, new mother of nine, was finally up and about. Hungry, she cautiously wandered out of the fireplace, following human voices.
She was disappointed to find only a radio.
But a little more "snooping" revealed something else entirely.
Stomach growling, she followed her nose to a rather large pile of headless animal crackers under the foot of a small human bed.
And just beyond that, white sneakers, tapping non-rhythmically to the radio music.
She investigated further. There was another smell about.
Familiar.
When LOBO finally spotted Phil, he gently snatched her under the bed with him.
"Jesus Christ Phil, are you trying to get us all killed!?"
Phil purred.
***
LOBO, Phil, and all of Phil's progeny sat under the bed eating animal crackers and Cheetos as LOBO watched vigilantly from under the bed.
"Didn't you hear all that shooting, Phil?" he asked finally.
Drowsy, Phil yawned contentedly, revealing a bright orange tongue.
"Well, maybe it was fireworks. Was it July Fourth already?" He peeked at the door. "Have the French surrendered again recently?".
His eye's locked with Phil's, searching deeply in vain for Frenchitudinal Probability in the world's newest deadbeat dad.
"No matter really," he says finaly in reassurance. "Four million drunken assholes with explosives can't be wrong."
LOBO watched as a kitten --LOBO named her 'Bob'--cuddled up on Phil's belly to start nursing, pulling at her fur with tiny little paws.
"God Phil," LOBO shook his head. "You don't know shit about fatherhood, do you?"
***
When the supply of animal cracker heads ran out, it was another three days before LOBO got hungry enough to sneak into the kitchen and steal Mr. I's Cheetos.
The operation went off flawlessly; he darted back, zigzagging to avoid being an easy target for the multitude of assassins --probably ninjas-- who seemed to possess limitless ammunition.
It took six hours to come up with the plan, and about sixteen seconds to execute. Despite the seemingly deafening crackle of the Cheeto bag, no shots were fired; LOBO figured maybe he caught them all just napping. Or maybe he was just too fast and agile for them to aim at; he was after all, wearing some really expensive athletic shoes that were endorsed by some Irish guy named Shack-Eel-O'neil.
LOBO's free throws plummeted, an he got kicked out of the NBA.
But he definitely liked the shoes.
After some brief self-congratulation, he stuck to a strict ration of four Cheetos a day.
At that pace, he figured, he could stay under the bed for fifty-six days.
So after arranging fifty-six small piles of Cheetos, he returned to his silent vigil, patiently listening for the S.W.A.T. team to show up and rescue him.
Unfortunately, the smell of decapitated animal crackers and fifty-six small piles of Cheetos turns out to be irresistible to the average hungry and blind newborn kitten, and one by one they wandered in. Cats --instinctual carnivorous hunters-- prefer live prey, and had little interest in already-decapitated animal crackers. LOBO found himself alternately grabbing kittens from wandering out into the gunfire and trying to prevent them from scarfing up his meager stash of the felis domesticus' natural enemy: the Cheeto.
In a pinch, he supposed, he could always eat the cats if he had to.
But he figured the odds of Mr. Insanity having chop sticks around to be fairly slim.
***
And LOBO may have never come out were it not for that radio.
But when he heard the news story about a bibliophile purchasing a complete 17th-century collection Shakespeare’s works, he absolutely flipped.
"What the fuck?!" he says, alarming the cats as he climbed out from under the bed. "I've never even heard of this guy's blog!" Dusting himself off, he scolded Phil. "Goddamn liberals! See what happens when you have bibliophiles roamin free in the streets?"
Streaming obscenities, he steeled himself to search for the grizzly, rotting, bullet-riddled remains of Mr. Insanity: perhaps some gloating over the dead would cheer him up.
While not finding any bodies, he was wholly unprepared for what he found on the kitchen table.
On top of a stack of life insurance policies was a folded newspaper.
And inside a penciled circle, he found the obituary of David Curr.
"You bastards!" he cried, falling to his knees, sobbing. "He was so young! And so good-looking ... !"
***
Robot LOBO stood in line at the Pearly Gates, confused.
Eons of processing mortals had provided that the procedure was fairly efficient, and Saint Peter had grown pretty blasé to the whole thing.
"No, Agnes," he said into his headset, looking into a small white box on his desk. "I got a spinach pie from Trader Joe's."
He tapped his pen on the desk. "Yes, spinach," he replied after a pause.
He leaned back in the chair, rolling his eyes. "No Agnes, I do not wish them smoten for putting spinach in my pie. It's how I wanted it."
Another pause. "Yes Agnes, I've heard of cherries and blueberries. It just so happens that Trader Joe's makes a pretty darn decent spinach pie," he replied into the air. "The chicken pot pie is good too--"
Biting his lip, he glanced at his appointment list, and then up at the clock. "Agnes, you guys go ahead and order Panazzo's. I've got a full itinerary today what with the World Cup and all."
Rubbing between his closed eyes with two fingers, he motioned with a pen in his other hand. "Next," he sighed, looking up.
It took Robot LOBO a few seconds to realize he was being addressed. He approached the desk with a nervous reverence.
"Please have a seat," said Saint Peter rather automatically.
"Thank you sir," said Robot LOBO.
"Name?"
"LOBO."
Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. "Odd. You're not on the list." Turning slightly, he tapped some keys on the keyboard. "Hm. Nothing." He eyed Robot LOBO closely. "How did you die?" he asked finally.
"I have no idea, sir."
"Did Phoebe wax you? I bet Gabriel fifty bucks Phoebe would wax you."
"I don't know sir," Robot LOBO repeated.
"Hang on a second, okay?" In his chair, he swiveled his back to Robot LOBO. "Agnes?" he asked, pressing the headset into his ear. "I've got LOBO here, and he's not on my list. I've got his account up, but it's still beeping like he was still sinning ...."
A pause.
"No Agnes, he can't be streaming obscenities right now. He's sitting right in front of me, not saying a word."
"Uh, sir," Robot LOBO interjected timidly. "I'm an android based on LOBO."
Another pause. "No, Agnes, I really don't think Trader Joe's would have 'pork chop pies'." He scratches his head. "I doubt there's any such thing, actually--"
Saint Peter spun in his chair, and started clocking Robot LOBO.
"You're an android," he says, all serious as he removes his headset.
Now, this android, upgraded to V2.1, has seen some freakin’ creepy Christopher Walken movies, and Holy Freakin' Jesus, Robot LOBO was losing hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor.
["Losin' hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor" is a rather rare Predator Press Technical Term: the Main Recycling Capacitor is sci-fi technology as yet incomprehensible to our feeble human minds; losin hydraulic fluid in it is the equivalent of needing to change your shorts after gettin glared at by Christopher Walken if you were a robot. It's all scientific.]
Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. He leaned back in the chair, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
He had the look of 'being onto someone's bullshit'.
"So," begins Saint Peter. "You're essentially a clone of someone that never had a soul in the first place." He grinned. Jesus Christ, he thought, This could get me a few thousand years of vacation!
"Actually," interjected Robot LOBO, "It took a lot of programming to come up with and develop a robot completely devoid of a soul. Bill Gates invested eight million dollars in it, in a collaborative venture with RDO." He paused politely. "In fact, I'm one of the prototypes."
"Bill Gates," Saint Peter laughed. "What a dumb ass." He spun the monitor at Robot LOBO, and Robot LOBO saw the Apple trademark.
Oh my God I am so screwed, he thought.
[Mr. I]
"Cancel ... my ... subscription ... to ... Highlights!" LOBO wheezed.
An then he fell over dead.
"'Highlights', huh?" I says. "Doesn't he subscribe to The Economist, U.S News, Scientific American, and World Report too?"
"He probably forgot," says Ethan, lighting his pipe. "He just gets those to make the mailman think he's smart."
I added them to my list. "And what about 'PETA' magazine?"
"Already cancelled. Did it when he found out that steel wool doesn't come from robot sheep."
I crossed off 'PETA subscription'.
"How’s the eulogy coming?"
The eulogy was a sore spot. "You know, Ethan? I don't appreciate you risking me getting brain damage by pulling me prematurely out of a coma because none of you jerks wanted to wax enthusiastic about that asshole ."
"We figured brain damage could only help."
The funeral plans were overly-complex.
For starters, we hadda find a tuxedo for a guy that never wore anything beyond Reeboks, jeans, and T-shirts bearing bumper-sticker humor. LOBO thought that "I'm With Stupid" was both a prolific literary insight to contemporary American genius, and a credit to the fashion world.
"It won't look natural at all," complained Phoebe.
"We could add some audio of him snoring," I suggested sarcastically.
Fortuitously, Ethan had bought shit-tons of life insurance, and were all going to the funeral in limos.
Solid gold limos.
I got sidetracked from writing the eulogy because I was just too busy coming out of a coma: everyone else, it seems, was too busy shopping. So even as I was groggily wheelchaired out of the hospital, I was already 'behind the eight ball' so to speak.
I drew out the scribbled Wal-Mart receipt, and rehearsed what I had so far.
"Brethren, we are gathered here today to celebrate the death of a habeas-corpus, as thyith frolicked with Hebrew Psalm found in The Hebrew Top 40 with hip Psalm-spinmeister Luke ‘97, yadda, yadda, yadda, Thank you for shopping at Wal-mart, Amen."
They just stared at me.
"Any questions?" I asked.
Long, awkward, dead silence.
"That's terrible," Phoebe says finally, grabbing the receipt.
"I know. But Kmart wanted four bucks for the same light bulbs."
"I mean this eulogy!" she glared.
"Yeah," says Ethan. "Jesus Christ! Can’t you ‘punch it up’ a little? You're writing an idiot's eulogy, not a Kevin Costner vehicle."
"C'mon," I says, annoyed. "The only reason we're even here making this spectacle is 'cuz you made us 1.3 million apiece with that crafty life insurance scam."
"Life Insurance Plan," Ethan corrected.
"Well," I says, taking the receipt back from Phoebe. "Any ideas?" Pencil tip to the paper, I stood alertly ready to jot all the profound new suggestions they would be completely unable to supply.
"He's probably never kicked a puppy," piped Sapphire after a long pause.
"... kicked ... a ... puppy ..." I wrote.
Phoebe was mortified. "This is what you call 'honoring the dead'?"
Ethan took Phoebe's hand in a comforting manner. "Honey," he says soothingly. "It's LOBO. No stripper in her right mind would do a funeral. It's completely tasteless--"
"This goddamn limo is huge!" yelled Beautiful White Stallion.
"--so we're doing the next-best thing by pretending to honor him," Ethan finished, scowling a the asshole horse.
"We're getting the insurance checks at the service?" I asked.
Ethan nodded. "I figured that was the only way I could get you guys to go."
An they all did the Sign of the Cross --belly, forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder-- with any nearby appendage available; the Twister game was in double-overtime.
"You think he's in Hell?" asks Sapphire.
"Jesus, lets hope so." Ethan says. Seeing the suddenly long faces, he tried to brighten things up a bit. "So you're rich now, people. What are you gonna do with all that dough?"
"Well, I'm totally sick of workin' for crazies," I breathe. "I've got an application in as a producer for Phil Specter."
"Good move," he says.
"What about you?" I ask, kinda reflexively
He frowned in serious thought, shrugging. "Well, me an Dayle got this beachfront property in Rio we've been looking at. I think I'm ready to lay out on a beach for a while. What about you, Sapphire?"
"Well, I'm getting a boob job from Ferrari for starters."
"Italy is really beautiful this time of year," Ethan approved. Everyone 'splitting the country' for a while was probably a good idea.
Phoebe was pissed. "Goddamn it people!" she demanded. "LOBO is dead. Can't we be serious for a day to pay our respects to the deceased?"
Ethan laughed. "Pay our respects to a guy who refused to send a fax on anything but bond paper?
"Or the self-proclaimed veteran of World Wars One, Two, Five, L, and pi?" I added.
"Or the only man ever arrested for wanton and reckless abuse of the Dewey Decimal System?" asked Sapphire.
"Is that a true story?" asked Phoebe.
"Supposedly," says Ethan. "I heard his mom tell it once."
"I thought LOBO was an orphan," inquired Sapphire.
"Well, that's what his parents tell everyone."
"Alright," Beautiful White Stallion demanded. "Who shit on the floor?"
Phil, new mother of nine, was finally up and about. Hungry, she cautiously wandered out of the fireplace, following human voices.
She was disappointed to find only a radio.
But a little more "snooping" revealed something else entirely.
Stomach growling, she followed her nose to a rather large pile of headless animal crackers under the foot of a small human bed.
And just beyond that, white sneakers, tapping non-rhythmically to the radio music.
She investigated further. There was another smell about.
Familiar.
When LOBO finally spotted Phil, he gently snatched her under the bed with him.
"Jesus Christ Phil, are you trying to get us all killed!?"
Phil purred.
LOBO, Phil, and all of Phil's progeny sat under the bed eating animal crackers and Cheetos as LOBO watched vigilantly from under the bed.
"Didn't you hear all that shooting, Phil?" he asked finally.
Drowsy, Phil yawned contentedly, revealing a bright orange tongue.
"Well, maybe it was fireworks. Was it July Fourth already?" He peeked at the door. "Have the French surrendered again recently?".
His eye's locked with Phil's, searching deeply in vain for Frenchitudinal Probability in the world's newest deadbeat dad.
"No matter really," he says finaly in reassurance. "Four million drunken assholes with explosives can't be wrong."
LOBO watched as a kitten --LOBO named her 'Bob'--cuddled up on Phil's belly to start nursing, pulling at her fur with tiny little paws.
"God Phil," LOBO shook his head. "You don't know shit about fatherhood, do you?"
When the supply of animal cracker heads ran out, it was another three days before LOBO got hungry enough to sneak into the kitchen and steal Mr. I's Cheetos.
The operation went off flawlessly; he darted back, zigzagging to avoid being an easy target for the multitude of assassins --probably ninjas-- who seemed to possess limitless ammunition.
It took six hours to come up with the plan, and about sixteen seconds to execute. Despite the seemingly deafening crackle of the Cheeto bag, no shots were fired; LOBO figured maybe he caught them all just napping. Or maybe he was just too fast and agile for them to aim at; he was after all, wearing some really expensive athletic shoes that were endorsed by some Irish guy named Shack-Eel-O'neil.
LOBO's free throws plummeted, an he got kicked out of the NBA.
But he definitely liked the shoes.
After some brief self-congratulation, he stuck to a strict ration of four Cheetos a day.
At that pace, he figured, he could stay under the bed for fifty-six days.
So after arranging fifty-six small piles of Cheetos, he returned to his silent vigil, patiently listening for the S.W.A.T. team to show up and rescue him.
Unfortunately, the smell of decapitated animal crackers and fifty-six small piles of Cheetos turns out to be irresistible to the average hungry and blind newborn kitten, and one by one they wandered in. Cats --instinctual carnivorous hunters-- prefer live prey, and had little interest in already-decapitated animal crackers. LOBO found himself alternately grabbing kittens from wandering out into the gunfire and trying to prevent them from scarfing up his meager stash of the felis domesticus' natural enemy: the Cheeto.
In a pinch, he supposed, he could always eat the cats if he had to.
But he figured the odds of Mr. Insanity having chop sticks around to be fairly slim.
And LOBO may have never come out were it not for that radio.
But when he heard the news story about a bibliophile purchasing a complete 17th-century collection Shakespeare’s works, he absolutely flipped.
"What the fuck?!" he says, alarming the cats as he climbed out from under the bed. "I've never even heard of this guy's blog!" Dusting himself off, he scolded Phil. "Goddamn liberals! See what happens when you have bibliophiles roamin free in the streets?"
Streaming obscenities, he steeled himself to search for the grizzly, rotting, bullet-riddled remains of Mr. Insanity: perhaps some gloating over the dead would cheer him up.
While not finding any bodies, he was wholly unprepared for what he found on the kitchen table.
On top of a stack of life insurance policies was a folded newspaper.
And inside a penciled circle, he found the obituary of David Curr.
"You bastards!" he cried, falling to his knees, sobbing. "He was so young! And so good-looking ... !"
Robot LOBO stood in line at the Pearly Gates, confused.
Eons of processing mortals had provided that the procedure was fairly efficient, and Saint Peter had grown pretty blasé to the whole thing.
"No, Agnes," he said into his headset, looking into a small white box on his desk. "I got a spinach pie from Trader Joe's."
He tapped his pen on the desk. "Yes, spinach," he replied after a pause.
He leaned back in the chair, rolling his eyes. "No Agnes, I do not wish them smoten for putting spinach in my pie. It's how I wanted it."
Another pause. "Yes Agnes, I've heard of cherries and blueberries. It just so happens that Trader Joe's makes a pretty darn decent spinach pie," he replied into the air. "The chicken pot pie is good too--"
Biting his lip, he glanced at his appointment list, and then up at the clock. "Agnes, you guys go ahead and order Panazzo's. I've got a full itinerary today what with the World Cup and all."
Rubbing between his closed eyes with two fingers, he motioned with a pen in his other hand. "Next," he sighed, looking up.
It took Robot LOBO a few seconds to realize he was being addressed. He approached the desk with a nervous reverence.
"Please have a seat," said Saint Peter rather automatically.
"Thank you sir," said Robot LOBO.
"Name?"
"LOBO."
Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. "Odd. You're not on the list." Turning slightly, he tapped some keys on the keyboard. "Hm. Nothing." He eyed Robot LOBO closely. "How did you die?" he asked finally.
"I have no idea, sir."
"Did Phoebe wax you? I bet Gabriel fifty bucks Phoebe would wax you."
"I don't know sir," Robot LOBO repeated.
"Hang on a second, okay?" In his chair, he swiveled his back to Robot LOBO. "Agnes?" he asked, pressing the headset into his ear. "I've got LOBO here, and he's not on my list. I've got his account up, but it's still beeping like he was still sinning ...."
A pause.
"No Agnes, he can't be streaming obscenities right now. He's sitting right in front of me, not saying a word."
"Uh, sir," Robot LOBO interjected timidly. "I'm an android based on LOBO."
Another pause. "No, Agnes, I really don't think Trader Joe's would have 'pork chop pies'." He scratches his head. "I doubt there's any such thing, actually--"
Saint Peter spun in his chair, and started clocking Robot LOBO.
"You're an android," he says, all serious as he removes his headset.
Now, this android, upgraded to V2.1, has seen some freakin’ creepy Christopher Walken movies, and Holy Freakin' Jesus, Robot LOBO was losing hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor.
["Losin' hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor" is a rather rare Predator Press Technical Term: the Main Recycling Capacitor is sci-fi technology as yet incomprehensible to our feeble human minds; losin hydraulic fluid in it is the equivalent of needing to change your shorts after gettin glared at by Christopher Walken if you were a robot. It's all scientific.]
Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. He leaned back in the chair, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
He had the look of 'being onto someone's bullshit'.
"So," begins Saint Peter. "You're essentially a clone of someone that never had a soul in the first place." He grinned. Jesus Christ, he thought, This could get me a few thousand years of vacation!
"Actually," interjected Robot LOBO, "It took a lot of programming to come up with and develop a robot completely devoid of a soul. Bill Gates invested eight million dollars in it, in a collaborative venture with RDO." He paused politely. "In fact, I'm one of the prototypes."
"Bill Gates," Saint Peter laughed. "What a dumb ass." He spun the monitor at Robot LOBO, and Robot LOBO saw the Apple trademark.
Oh my God I am so screwed, he thought.
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