A Slicing Device
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
***
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
***
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
***
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
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