Nearly Lost You
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Well, it's been weeks since LOBO's ill-timed ending of the blog, and Dash has been pointing the shotgun at us the whole time.
Ethan and I have been on cellphones with Geek Squad guys hacking for the Predator Press passwords, ordering up Chinese, pizza and 'Happy Ending' massages, and bitching out Comcast.
Dash, completely emaciated, has been complaining that the shotgun is getting heavy.
So here we are.
***
"So what exactly do you want, Dash?" I says.
"LOBO."
"Why?" asks Ethan.
"BECAUSE YOU AND BABS HAVE NOW SPLIT HAWLY ENTERPRISES FIFTY-FIFTY. BUT LOBO OWNS ONE SHARE."
"That's right!" says Ethan. "I own fifty percent, and so does Babs. Now LOBO, weirdly enough, might have a controlling interest. Can you imagine the wacky things that might occur if LOBO and Babs hook up--?"
"Ethan!" I snap.
Just then a UPS guy showed up, cradling a cardboard box. "Package for LOBO," he says smiling, as he extends the brown electronic pad.
"I'll sign," I says.
"Uh, sir," says the guy. "It's a Code 6."
I look at the return address on the box, and recognize it. "Shit," I says.
"WHAT'S A CODE 6?" asks DASH, alternating pointing the gun at everyone.
"LOBO occasionally gets packages from ex-girlfriends," I explain, signing, "but his personal philosophy is 'If it's not mine I don't want it, and if it is mine, I'm not missing it.'"
"SO?"
"We just find it's more prudent to soak all these packages in a saline base to prevent premature detonation until such a time that we can jettison it into space," Ethan explains.
"BUT WHAT IF IT'S COOKIES?"
"It's not cookies, dumbass," says the UPS guy.
Dash motions him over, and fumbles with the whole pointing-a-shotgun-while-opening-a-package thing as the UPS guy flees. With two fingers he gingerly pulls the string on the package, and promptly blows himself into smithereens.
***
Ethan and I crawl out from the wreckage, even as cybernetic Brad Pitt legs --no longer united by a torso-- cross and clang separately to the ground.
Wheezing smoke and spitting concrete dust, we stand, brushing ourselves off.
"Look," I cough at Ethan, shaking my head. "We're just going to have to start screening LOBO's girlfriends."
[Mr. I]
Well, it's been weeks since LOBO's ill-timed ending of the blog, and Dash has been pointing the shotgun at us the whole time.
Ethan and I have been on cellphones with Geek Squad guys hacking for the Predator Press passwords, ordering up Chinese, pizza and 'Happy Ending' massages, and bitching out Comcast.
Dash, completely emaciated, has been complaining that the shotgun is getting heavy.
So here we are.
"So what exactly do you want, Dash?" I says.
"LOBO."
"Why?" asks Ethan.
"BECAUSE YOU AND BABS HAVE NOW SPLIT HAWLY ENTERPRISES FIFTY-FIFTY. BUT LOBO OWNS ONE SHARE."
"That's right!" says Ethan. "I own fifty percent, and so does Babs. Now LOBO, weirdly enough, might have a controlling interest. Can you imagine the wacky things that might occur if LOBO and Babs hook up--?"
"Ethan!" I snap.
Just then a UPS guy showed up, cradling a cardboard box. "Package for LOBO," he says smiling, as he extends the brown electronic pad.
"I'll sign," I says.
"Uh, sir," says the guy. "It's a Code 6."
I look at the return address on the box, and recognize it. "Shit," I says.
"WHAT'S A CODE 6?" asks DASH, alternating pointing the gun at everyone.
"LOBO occasionally gets packages from ex-girlfriends," I explain, signing, "but his personal philosophy is 'If it's not mine I don't want it, and if it is mine, I'm not missing it.'"
"SO?"
"We just find it's more prudent to soak all these packages in a saline base to prevent premature detonation until such a time that we can jettison it into space," Ethan explains.
"BUT WHAT IF IT'S COOKIES?"
"It's not cookies, dumbass," says the UPS guy.
Dash motions him over, and fumbles with the whole pointing-a-shotgun-while-opening-a-package thing as the UPS guy flees. With two fingers he gingerly pulls the string on the package, and promptly blows himself into smithereens.
Ethan and I crawl out from the wreckage, even as cybernetic Brad Pitt legs --no longer united by a torso-- cross and clang separately to the ground.
Wheezing smoke and spitting concrete dust, we stand, brushing ourselves off.
"Look," I cough at Ethan, shaking my head. "We're just going to have to start screening LOBO's girlfriends."
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