The Art of Peking Duck

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I have urgent news.”

“What is it, strange little person?” I says.

“It is I, son of Bang Ho.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Bang Ho," he corrects politely. "Grand Master of the Peking Duck!”

“That Bang Ho?” I says.

“Yes LOBO-san. He is dead.”

“No shit?”

“He and 14,004 of our Sacred Acolytes were all killed touring the White House yesterday.”

“I told them to got to the Smithsonian."

“LOBO-san,” says the boy. “I don’t think you understand. You are now Grand Master of the Peking Duck.”

My iPhone rings.

It's Ethan.

"Hey there 'Screaming Eagle' or whatever," I says to the boy, holding up a finger. "Hang on. This is important. Hello?"

"LOBO?" says Ethan.

"Yes?"

"I've started reading Predator Press, and I'm starting to suspect that what you're publishing isn't entirely true."

The boy tugs on my arm. "LOBO-san, ninja enemies of the Peking Duck are arriving on nuclear submarines. We must be going!"

Putting my finger to my lips, I give the boy the universal 'Shh!'

"I know," I whisper, leaning in close and holding the phone away.

"-Ethan is just tryin to get out of buying donuts."