[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!"
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