The Viscosity of Toothpaste
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Since none of you cowards volunteered to kill my neighbors, I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.
“Look,” I says to the Butterbean kid. “You can’t go toe-to-toe with them. You’re too short. You need to use your weight against ‘em. Work up some inertia first. You know, hit ‘em like a 30 mile an hour walrus.”
“What if I don’t want to kill the neighbors?”
“Then why did you answer my ad on Monster-dot-com?”
“Because it said you wanted an administrative assistant.”
“Good administrative assistants kill people all the time.”
“Really?”
“Well, 'monster' is right in the name. And you gotta let monsters have some fun. If not, you have to pay them.”
“I’m not sure I want the job, actually.”
“You don’t want your secret identity as the deadly -feared and respected by all- Walrus Man? I think that would be a bad career move personally.”
“Why do you want the neighbors killed?”
“Because they’re evil.”
“How so?”
“They do stuff like mow the lawn while I’m trying to sleep.”
“My Dad mows the lawn here, Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon” says Butterbean. “I thought you meant the neighbors on the other side.”
“I do mean the neighbors on the other side. Killing your parents is merely a way to test your administrative assistant aptitude.” I pause. “How else am I to find out if you have, you know, the Eye of The Walrus?"
"How about if we ask my Dad to mow the lawn at some other time?"
"See this?" I says, showing my shaky hand. "And look how bloodshot my eyes are! I, author of Predator Press, am under enormous pressure. Millions and millions of readers will always be asking me every day, 'LOBO, why aren't your neighbors dead yet?' And if I don't get fifteen hours of completely random sleep a day, I'm likely to do something crazy -like not kill the neighbors. Do you want to be responsible for that?”
“You only have 150 RSS subscribers," he says skeptically. "And most of those are pre-med students looking for a psychiatric practicum."
“What happened to you?” I demand. “Did they get to you already? Fess up Walrus Man ... Despite a valorous career fighting crime, were you seduced by their massive payroll? Was it money? Was it women? Was it women made of money?"
“No.”
I gasp. “They gave you the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates? Walrus Man, you are shrewd.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“But I already had it embroidered on your cape!”
[LOBO]
Since none of you cowards volunteered to kill my neighbors, I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.
“Look,” I says to the Butterbean kid. “You can’t go toe-to-toe with them. You’re too short. You need to use your weight against ‘em. Work up some inertia first. You know, hit ‘em like a 30 mile an hour walrus.”
“What if I don’t want to kill the neighbors?”
“Then why did you answer my ad on Monster-dot-com?”
“Because it said you wanted an administrative assistant.”
“Good administrative assistants kill people all the time.”
“Really?”
“Well, 'monster' is right in the name. And you gotta let monsters have some fun. If not, you have to pay them.”
“I’m not sure I want the job, actually.”
“You don’t want your secret identity as the deadly -feared and respected by all- Walrus Man? I think that would be a bad career move personally.”
“Why do you want the neighbors killed?”
“Because they’re evil.”
“How so?”
“They do stuff like mow the lawn while I’m trying to sleep.”
“My Dad mows the lawn here, Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon” says Butterbean. “I thought you meant the neighbors on the other side.”
“I do mean the neighbors on the other side. Killing your parents is merely a way to test your administrative assistant aptitude.” I pause. “How else am I to find out if you have, you know, the Eye of The Walrus?"
"How about if we ask my Dad to mow the lawn at some other time?"
"See this?" I says, showing my shaky hand. "And look how bloodshot my eyes are! I, author of Predator Press, am under enormous pressure. Millions and millions of readers will always be asking me every day, 'LOBO, why aren't your neighbors dead yet?' And if I don't get fifteen hours of completely random sleep a day, I'm likely to do something crazy -like not kill the neighbors. Do you want to be responsible for that?”
“You only have 150 RSS subscribers," he says skeptically. "And most of those are pre-med students looking for a psychiatric practicum."
“What happened to you?” I demand. “Did they get to you already? Fess up Walrus Man ... Despite a valorous career fighting crime, were you seduced by their massive payroll? Was it money? Was it women? Was it women made of money?"
“No.”
I gasp. “They gave you the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates? Walrus Man, you are shrewd.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“But I already had it embroidered on your cape!”
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