Predator Press and the Tomb of the Velvet Ropes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Saturday I decided I needed to take out all the cash from the “Feed LOBO” fundraising effort.

Despite coming from Don Lewis, a buck is a buck. And after the government does it’s ‘Where’s My Money?’ shell game, that’s about 67 cents.

That’s mac and cheese money, baby.

In fact that’s Kraft mac and cheese money.

According to my calculatrons, I’m only a few weeks away from the salt, butter and milk required to complete the recipe.

Maybe I'll just go crazy and hold out for Velveeta.


***

A bank being open during Predator Press Month should have been my first sign of trouble. But I equate going to the bank with Purgatory: a sea of disinterested, dismantled vacant faces waiting in twisty and random excruciatingly slow roped queues.

They'll be open.

True, you might see one or two upon occasion that are still somehow faintly hopeful this is the line that leads to a thick, turbulent swill of soul-harvesting interest rates and mortgage loans. Not even dignifying them with full annunciation, we call them the 'Unngghhh' and nudge each other quietly when we spot them. And once awareness has been sufficiently raised, we taunt them with subtle mercilessness until they either 'join the ranks' or flip out, screaming in macabre frustration.

It’s this ‘screaming’ phase you don’t want. An un-culled Unnngh sobbing and screaming in line can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. If the screaming phase takes too long, accelerate the process of permanently breaking their Will by tripping them frequently. Sneak a few kicks in if you can.

Every so often -if an unobserved opportunity presents itself- I’ll rearrange the ropes. I mean you never know, right? And if I can’t solve the maze in this manner, I’ll make them into a loop for the people behind me to wander through for all Eternity.

If, on the other hand, I solve the maze, I'll arrange the ropes so they’ll spill out at The Gap or something. The water bill remains unpaid, but they leave with their souls intact and a nice new cardigan.

Unless there's an Unghh behind me.

I hate those lousy Unngghs.


***

In this case, I solved the maze in an hour and twenty minutes. A record for me. Nervously peering over my shoulder, I discreetly slide the signed check and my driver’s license across to the teller.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There appears to be a lien against any ‘Feed LOBO’ funds raised.”

I owe the Loyal Reader a sidebar explanation here: due to the money I blew for the 'Feed LOBO' telethon on entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics, the first 4-5 million is supposed to come right off the top as overhead; I, conversely, contend that hideous and catastrophic fiscal debacle is not my fault, and should be blamed on lousy entertainers, costumes, advertising, caterers and pyrotechnics.

Various collection agencies apparently disagree.

“How dare you,” I demand. “Do you have any idea how much money I have in this bank?”

“It says here $6.87,” he says. “And apparently there’s a lien on that too.”

“Well I’m not going to keep my liquid cash here. It’s not safe!”

“Our impregnable vault was secretly designed and constructed from the outside in by two mysterious German engineers. Upon completion, it could only be opened from the inside –and those engineers are long since presumed dead.”

“How do you get the money in and out?”

“We don’t. We keep it in a mason jar on the fridge in the break room.”

"You can't do this," I explain calmly. "It's Predator Press Month for God's sake. What will the kids say?"

"You have kids? What are their names?"

"Shiftless and, eh, Screechy I think. In fact, that $6.87 is Shiftless' college fund."

"I'm sorry sir."

“Can I still play with that cool toy with the beads?”

"Only if you give all the pens back."