You've Got Mail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You readers know I love you, right?

I would do anything, anyplace, anytime for either one of you. I would even dredge Lake Michigan eventually!

... But I absolutely live for Saturday mornings.

There's nothing like padding around in your footie pajamas and watching cartoons until noon.

On Saturdays, no one gets mad at me for it; but when I do it on Tuesday, oh holy crap it's all 'bitch, bitch, bitch'.

On Saturday mornings, I don't always answer the phone either.

Ironic, isn't it? That I will spend a fortune on a security system with thermal detectors, a moat filled with starving alligators swimming in napalm and a perimeter surrounded by high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams? Nothing can pierce the heart of this tranquil womb of solitude.

Except the telephone.

As Ethan is calling, I'm sipping a latte and fiddling with the security cameras, zooming in and out of what has become a bizarre and intriguing discovery.

My front yard has fallen victim of some kind of crazy litterbug.

I pick up the phone absently.

"Yeah?" I says.

It's Ethan.

"Are you watching the news?" he asks.

"No," I says distantly, zooming the camera onto a small pile of smoldering rubbish on the sidewalk. It looks like a bag.

"Bob Guccione Jr just got arrested for starting all those California wildfires."

"No shit?" I says, zooming in on a second pile over on the walkway. It's another scorched sack of some kind.

This one appears to be labeled 'US Mail'.

"Yeah," Ethan continues. "They caught him red-handed burning a script someone mailed him."

Panning out with the camera, I see three of those little mail trucks, all oddly peppered and scarred with what appear to be burns from high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams.

An ashen dust-devil whips through a charred and blackend skeleton, hanging listlessly from the seatbelt.

Well, it appears my Saturday is completely fucked already.