Old Mother Hubbard

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]


Miss Hubbard’s mansion was pretty spacious, but I’ll be damned if that old bat didn’t keep every inch of that creepy place spick and span.

“Yeah so you’re three weeks behind on your newspaper deliveries,” I continue. “You a deadbeat or something?”

“How much do I owe you?” she asks flatly.

“Three fifty,” I says. “And it ain’t negotiable. Poppa needs a new Schwinn this year.”

“Such an industrious young man,” she says, tussling my hair. “I’m sure I have a few dollars in my purse.”

“Well I hope so Miss Hubbard,” I says. “Where’s the bathroom? Now you're late on payments and my hair is all screwed up.”

“I wouldn’t go wandering,” says the woman from the next room. “Rommel is friendly, but he doesn’t take kindly to people roaming around.”

Rommel, a Rottweiler roughly the same weight as myself, growled menacingly.

“Now, now Rommel,” she chided. “You mustn’t spook the guests.”

“Man lady,” I says looking around. “You sure got a lot of books on Scientology.”

“My son is a very prolific writer,” she calls from the kitchen.

Mental Note: "prolific" = crappy

I cross my arms. "Yeah I’ll bet.”

“I can’t seen to find my purse," she says exasperated. “Can you check the kitchen? I’ll look upstairs.”

“What about Cujo here?”

“If he growls,” she says fading upwards, “just give him a bone from the cupboard.”

I swing open the door and enter the kitchen.

There’s no purse to be found.

This wrinkle-kit is gonna drag this out into an all-day affair if I let her, I’m thinking. God they should just wax all these lonely old crazy people. Once you get like thirty or so-“

Suddenly Rommel let loose a thunderous bark, and cut my train of thought completely.

He’s sitting on the kitchen linoleum, drooling sloppily, and tail thumping hard against the floor. He's a pretty big dog, too: we are looking eye-to-eye.

And for the first time since I got here, the dog looked friendly.

“Who’s a good boy?” I says, scratching him behind the ears. Remembering what the old crone said about the bones in the cupboard I says “Wanna treat?”

Bam bam bam goes the stumpy tail with increased enthusiasm. Rommel does an exaggerated and clumsy half-trot to the cupboards -impotent claws slipping helpless and loudly across the smooth floor- clearly indicating where the treats are.

What kind of crazy old broad would keep bones in a cupboard? I’m thinking. But sure enough, there’s a big thick meaty one in there. Maybe four or five pounds, eighteen inches or so long.

“Well it’s a good day to be Rommel!” I smile, tossing him the grizzly trophy. “So does this hag got any pop or anything? I'm thirsty.”

I open the fridge. She has iced tea, a half bottle of Shasta, a human head in a jar of clear liquid, and what is most likely orange juice-

My heavy bag of newspapers slides off of my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a with a solid thud.

As I stare -the hairs rising on the back of my neck- the magnetic refrigerator door eases closed.

And there’s an audible sickening crack of broken bone as Rommel enjoys his “prize” behind me.

“Oh there you are!” says Old Mother Hubbard, proudly brandishing her newly-found purse. “Three fifty you say?”

“You know what lady?” I says, dragging my bag. “We’re good.”


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