Bilge
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I got up early. Showered, shaved, pony tailed, suited, the works.
I would go as far as to say I looked rather dapper.
But 16 miles at 105 MPH in 17 degrees with my car door bungee-corded shut changed the game a little … My hair, still wet when I left, has flash-frozen closely to my head.
Goddamnnit, it’s perfect. I mean seriously: my hair is magnificent. Maybe I don't need a new car after all ...
And as predicted, Ethan really doesn’t seem to care about me getting some time off, as long as I get it cleared with the Director of Operations.
The Director of Operations, of course, is Cobe.
Houston, we may have a problem.
***
“We have concerns about how the corporate image Predator Press has evolved this year,” he says.
“Our image is fine,” I insist impatiently.
“Really?” says Cobe, thumping a big file on his desk. “Assault on a noted environmentalist, the attempted homicide of Santa Claus—“
“Okay fine. We’ve hit some speed bumps,” LOBO admits. "Look, I'll give you a quarter--"
Cobe’s eyes narrow. “You also tried to have me killed,” he says thinly.
“It was for a good cause,” I offer.
“Well, I think you should have to postpone your vacation until you have done something to repair the tarnish public image we are enduring.”
“What about all my charity work?”
“Ah, yes. Breast and Ovarian Cancer,” Cobe replies. “I would like to see something a little more tangible. Something more visible on a local level.”
“Like what?”
***
So I’m sitting outside the Kmart, freezing to death.
Dressed as Santa Claus.
I bang my bell on the red pot, yelling at bewildered customers through my fake beard. “You unpatriotic, cheapskate deadbeats! The French could kick the crap out of this so-called 'Army' … !”
[LOBO]
I got up early. Showered, shaved, pony tailed, suited, the works.
I would go as far as to say I looked rather dapper.
But 16 miles at 105 MPH in 17 degrees with my car door bungee-corded shut changed the game a little … My hair, still wet when I left, has flash-frozen closely to my head.
Goddamnnit, it’s perfect. I mean seriously: my hair is magnificent. Maybe I don't need a new car after all ...
And as predicted, Ethan really doesn’t seem to care about me getting some time off, as long as I get it cleared with the Director of Operations.
The Director of Operations, of course, is Cobe.
Houston, we may have a problem.
“We have concerns about how the corporate image Predator Press has evolved this year,” he says.
“Our image is fine,” I insist impatiently.
“Really?” says Cobe, thumping a big file on his desk. “Assault on a noted environmentalist, the attempted homicide of Santa Claus—“
“Okay fine. We’ve hit some speed bumps,” LOBO admits. "Look, I'll give you a quarter--"
Cobe’s eyes narrow. “You also tried to have me killed,” he says thinly.
“It was for a good cause,” I offer.
“Well, I think you should have to postpone your vacation until you have done something to repair the tarnish public image we are enduring.”
“What about all my charity work?”
“Ah, yes. Breast and Ovarian Cancer,” Cobe replies. “I would like to see something a little more tangible. Something more visible on a local level.”
“Like what?”
So I’m sitting outside the Kmart, freezing to death.
Dressed as Santa Claus.
I bang my bell on the red pot, yelling at bewildered customers through my fake beard. “You unpatriotic, cheapskate deadbeats! The French could kick the crap out of this so-called 'Army' … !”
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