Soak

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Vitalized by our harrowing near-death experience meeting James Carville, the Butterbean kid and I ate ice cream and discussed the possible cosmic ramifications.

“At least this isn’t some weird yogurt,” he says.

My eyebrows furrow as I study the globe. “I still can’t find where he claims he was born.”

“It’s Fort Benning, Georgia,” Butterbean offers. “It would be right over Florida.”

“Well that’s exactly where my thumb is,” I protest. “I’m not buying it.”

Lapping up the last of Fudgie the Whale, we consider this in relative silence.

Butterbean eventually pipes up, rubbing a paper towel against the sticky shirt covering his flabbing pectorals. “So what if aliens have taken over our minds and have made us join the democratic party?” He sits at his parfait. “Now all the Gary Coleman clones are ours.”

Warily, I climb down from the table. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," says Butterbean. "Thanks to Mister Drummond and his daughters, your ankles are now completely safe from Sickle Cell Anemia."

“A sister,” I says mystically. “NBC was wise to hide her from me.”