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.”
[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:
“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.”
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