The Butterbean Kid is Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Butterbean scoffs incredulously over my shoulder.

“You can’t really write that if it isn’t true.”

Exasperated, I stop writing.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me while I’m filling out insurance papers?”

"Sorry," says Butterbean, looking away. “I just thought it might be, I dunno, illegal or something.”

Decedent Age: 13

“Yeah, well,” I says. "It's only one of the many sacrifices I make for the millions and millions of Predator Press readers."

Cause of Death:

I pause to look at him for a second, then return to my keyboard.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation

Butterbean, visibly wounded, seems to deflate somewhat.

“My mother says I’m big-boned” he offers. Showing me his fleshy, flaccid bicep with the water-soluble tattoos we got in Switzerland, he continues. “Some girls like guys with some 'meat' on them.”

-And I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was all those hot, big-haired 80’s chicks I failed to woo with my ‘64 Dodge Dart replete with imitation vinyl interior, pine tree air freshener, and AM radio.

But I felt sorry for him.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation Complications of Menopause

“What’s ‘Menopause’?” asks Butterbean.

“It’s a really high level of World of Warcraft.”

“Cool,” he says. “I gotta go home and tell my parents I‘m still alive. And I get in trouble if I’m late for dinner.”

I strip the receipt tape from the 10-key.

“Well if you must,” I says, scowling at the tiny scroll. “But try not to be conspicuous.”