Barbarossa

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have no idea where Barbarossa got the idea that I am his parole officer, but I cannot in good conscience inhibit his reformation and social reintegration.

Not knowing what exactly a parole officer does, I had a big prize wheel installed behind my chair: among other mundane things like 'Get Another Job' and 'Help Hide the Bodies,' every fourth notch says in bold, gigantical letters, “GO BACK TO JAIL!” To keep his attention I might sort of idly move the wheel back an forth, plucking the little arrow a few knocks. Sometimes I'll even absently drift toward my soap-on-a-rope poster during the PowerPoint presentations -or after a good lengthy and comprehensive lecture on where pastrami sandwich theft'll get you, I'll show Midnight Express in 3-D followed by a pop quiz on why his picture is on the Turkish website I've been working on.

Moreover, there’s a big red button in the middle of my desk positioned directly between us. It’s not hooked up to anything, and we never talk about it ...but on the rare occasion I feel I'm 'losing him' -and the prize wheel doesn't work- I’ll sort of let my hands linger around this button. You know, like folding my hands near it? Or sometimes just lunging toward it while stretching during an improbably-abrupt, deep yawn? For another good "wake up call," I'll put a 5-pack of Bic lighters in the nearby dryer ... and every time one detonates I'll run in circles, screaming.

To say he is one ugly motherfucker is to be kind -I mean this guy fell off the Ugly Tree and hit every branch on the way down. Then he fell down into the Ugly Well, and continued on to bash against the Ugly Rocks and drown in the Ugly Water ... meh, you get the picture. But this isn't Barbarossa's main problem. What's really screwed up about this poor bastard is that he's not just tarded, but he is legally "retarded." This means Barbarossa will require more than one -and possibly numerous- untardings. So as his "parole officer," I've officially "Partitioned the Court" or something, and he will guard a pastrami sandwich in my refigerator for free until further notice. As treatment. Remember: "Idle hands are the Devil's pork chop," and we have to distract the Devil from my pastrami sandwich at all costs.

While numerous scientists agree that nothing untards an ex con like being a copy editor for Predator Press, many scientists also do not agree ... and as a scientist myself, I am disinclined to set those nerds straight good 'n proper this time: who wants Barbarossa -in the current frail state he is in- exposed to the trauma of seeing numerous scientists I have proven wrong immolating themselves on bunsen burners and impaling themselves on broken test tubes? Hm? In a rare moment of human compassion I have agreed to help Barbarossa along on his precarious road to Redemption and thusly steer him away from evil when possible: having solemnly taken charge of this clearly promising, impressionable lad's future, I cannot let that happen for his or her own sake.

But speaking of "charge," I have decided to make Barbarossa work a little in effort to knock out some of the Tard Therapy bill I'm going to send him eventually. Along with guarding the pastrami sandwich, Barbarossa will create a meticulous alpha-numeric Excel-freindly catalogue of all Predator Press' refrigerator contents -with particular emphasis on the expiration dates. And Predator Press perks won't stop at Barbarossa's expense either: because some of the Predator Press staff has a taste for the more expensive and "exotic" (such as bathing several times a week, et cetera), Barbarossa will spearhead the formulation of a committee exclusively responsible for melding all my little soap bar leftovers together to make one a size of practical re-use.