Predator Press
[LOBO]
Fond of some local companies, I figured I would start a Softball League.
But because it’s negative five degrees outside, it turns out I’m the only commissioner, coach, manager, and player so far.
Today is the first LBL World Series.
And my statistics are amazing.
Saturday
LOBO is a Mom (Day IV)
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Everyone is always sayin’ “Bein a mom is sooooo hard,” and “Childbirth is blah, blah, blah, ...”
But don't be fooled; it turns out this whole "Bein a Mom" thing is the easiest thing on Earth. A transparent scam for Hallmark cards! Hell I haven’t even seen the precocious little scamp since Day 1.
-As a “chip off the old block,” I’m assuming she has taken initiative and enrolled herself in Elementary School or something.
[LOBO]
Everyone is always sayin’ “Bein a mom is sooooo hard,” and “Childbirth is blah, blah, blah, ...”
But don't be fooled; it turns out this whole "Bein a Mom" thing is the easiest thing on Earth. A transparent scam for Hallmark cards! Hell I haven’t even seen the precocious little scamp since Day 1.
-As a “chip off the old block,” I’m assuming she has taken initiative and enrolled herself in Elementary School or something.
Friday
LOBO is a Mom (Day III)
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Stretching, Dave Harrison scratches his neck and remembers how overdue he was for a shave.
As a Tier Two Customer Service Rep for Southwest Airlines, he answered mostly calls forwarded up from people that initially take calls and field the routine issues.
And it’s true that as a “T2CSR” you get yelled at a lot. But overall the T1CSR’s usually get flustered by some hostile treatment and overlooking some simple solution or policy. To avoid this, Dave checks his computer screen preview of the issue prior to answering the phone. Making an already-irate caller repeat themselves too many times would be the equivalent of driving tanker trucks of gasoline into a volcano.
As a four year veteran of the Southwest Airlines Customer Service, he rarely saw an issue that surprised him anymore.
But this time the screen read:
“Customer wants to know how many Frequent Flyer miles he needs
before we hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen.”
Already reaching to the phone, he pauses and leans on his elbow instead, rubbing his temples, his eyes. The CS1s are taking these notes superfast, “live” and often being distracted by the customer. Sometimes a misplaced comma or something …
But doing this hundreds of times a day, Dave suddenly hears himself saying, “This is Dave Harrison. How can I help you with your Frequent Flyer miles?”
”Hi Dave,” says a cheerful voice. ”How many Frequent Flyer miles do I need before you guys hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen?”
“Your Frequent Flyer miles are perfectly safe with us,” replied Dave with a well-practice smooth. Still, unsure if he was on track with whatever this is, his eyebrows furrowed. “How many Frequent Flyer miles do you have?” he asked, fishing for information.
“I don’t have any yet I don’t think,” replied the caller. “That’s my next question. How do my Comfort Animal and I set up accounts and stuff? I assume I have to buy my Comfort Animal a ticket. But does she get miles too? Or maybe a percentage?”
“No,” Dave replies. “But are you sure you have to buy your Comfort Animal a ticket? What is it?”
“It’s a ladybug. In a jar with holes poked in the top. Probably.”
Well away from the mouthpiece, Dave sighs.
“Where are you going?”
"We’re not going anywhere yet. Well, not planning it anyway. Just checking. Where do you keep our miles? Is there a vault or something ...?”
[LOBO]
Stretching, Dave Harrison scratches his neck and remembers how overdue he was for a shave.
As a Tier Two Customer Service Rep for Southwest Airlines, he answered mostly calls forwarded up from people that initially take calls and field the routine issues.
And it’s true that as a “T2CSR” you get yelled at a lot. But overall the T1CSR’s usually get flustered by some hostile treatment and overlooking some simple solution or policy. To avoid this, Dave checks his computer screen preview of the issue prior to answering the phone. Making an already-irate caller repeat themselves too many times would be the equivalent of driving tanker trucks of gasoline into a volcano.
As a four year veteran of the Southwest Airlines Customer Service, he rarely saw an issue that surprised him anymore.
But this time the screen read:
before we hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen.”
Already reaching to the phone, he pauses and leans on his elbow instead, rubbing his temples, his eyes. The CS1s are taking these notes superfast, “live” and often being distracted by the customer. Sometimes a misplaced comma or something …
But doing this hundreds of times a day, Dave suddenly hears himself saying, “This is Dave Harrison. How can I help you with your Frequent Flyer miles?”
”Hi Dave,” says a cheerful voice. ”How many Frequent Flyer miles do I need before you guys hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen?”
“Your Frequent Flyer miles are perfectly safe with us,” replied Dave with a well-practice smooth. Still, unsure if he was on track with whatever this is, his eyebrows furrowed. “How many Frequent Flyer miles do you have?” he asked, fishing for information.
“I don’t have any yet I don’t think,” replied the caller. “That’s my next question. How do my Comfort Animal and I set up accounts and stuff? I assume I have to buy my Comfort Animal a ticket. But does she get miles too? Or maybe a percentage?”
“No,” Dave replies. “But are you sure you have to buy your Comfort Animal a ticket? What is it?”
“It’s a ladybug. In a jar with holes poked in the top. Probably.”
Well away from the mouthpiece, Dave sighs.
“Where are you going?”
"We’re not going anywhere yet. Well, not planning it anyway. Just checking. Where do you keep our miles? Is there a vault or something ...?”
Thursday
LOBO is a Mom (Day II)
Predator Press
[LOBO]
[LOBO]
Well, my little darling hasn’t made an appearance
today. Which is probably good, because I
had a nightmare last night that she was the first of an entire brood and,
utterly famished, dissolved me to a skeleton before I could scream.
All new parents want to be lied to about this harsh, jagged reality. But my case is a little different because ladybugs are considered good luck.
I would have had the luckiest skeleton on Earth.
I would have had the luckiest skeleton on Earth.
But there wasn’t a swarm, so it is likely I only have
one. That’s why I went out and got some
Creatine Supplements, bodybuilding milkshakes, and occasional random naked
steroids. For the beginnings of an evil
army of minions, a two thousand pound balding ladybug with shrunken testicles
and rage issues is delightfully ironic.
I've officially named her “Rommel.”
Wednesday
LOBO is a Mom
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a cat owner –currently sans cat- a bug is kind of an event.
Particularly a flying one given the complexity of entering my lair. The ladybug must have "hitched a ride" in or on my clothing. And with good reason frankly; three weeks ago we had just settled down to our first good local deepfreeze.
But she -the ladybug- was fucked. It was unsurvivable outside, and I didn’t have any plants for her to eat. I didn’t even have any windows.
But over the span of that week, she grew grayer and less colorful. The last day she didn’t even bother to hide from me; she just hung on the ceiling.
And I was sad. This tiny little thing had stabbed its way through a maelstrom of garbage inconveniently into my inner-circle of consciousness; she was certainly going to die one way or the other … maybe there was a greater dignity in having crushed her on sight in the first place.
I have vacuumed at least four times under the spot where the grey, unmoving carapace of the ladybug was last seen, and haven’t given it a thought since.
-But today I found the teeniest little ladybug drinking water from a drop in the bathroom sink.
[LOBO]
As a cat owner –currently sans cat- a bug is kind of an event.
Particularly a flying one given the complexity of entering my lair. The ladybug must have "hitched a ride" in or on my clothing. And with good reason frankly; three weeks ago we had just settled down to our first good local deepfreeze.
But she -the ladybug- was fucked. It was unsurvivable outside, and I didn’t have any plants for her to eat. I didn’t even have any windows.
So I “googled” ladybugs, and found out that aside from aphids they are more or less
omnivores. There was generally water and
an occasional dirty dish. While I’m not
hauling in foliage, I figure she had a better bet with me than the subzero
temperatures.
But over the span of that week, she grew grayer and less colorful. The last day she didn’t even bother to hide from me; she just hung on the ceiling.
And I was sad. This tiny little thing had stabbed its way through a maelstrom of garbage inconveniently into my inner-circle of consciousness; she was certainly going to die one way or the other … maybe there was a greater dignity in having crushed her on sight in the first place.
I have vacuumed at least four times under the spot where the grey, unmoving carapace of the ladybug was last seen, and haven’t given it a thought since.
-But today I found the teeniest little ladybug drinking water from a drop in the bathroom sink.
Tuesday
I Promise I Will Not Donate Any of the Proceeds of This Miniseries to Worthwhile Charities
Predator Press
[LOBO]
hump-wrrrrrrrr!
Starboard.
Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre paced his deck pensively, and the sound was excruciating. The seasoned Captain, missing his right leg below the knee, had a peg as pirates do. But on his good foot, he had taken to wearing a rollerblade.
Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually. From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”
“Yes I did,” replied the mermaid. “When he told you ‘I’ll bite your balls off if you get near the treasure,’ I explained to you that he was a Yorkshire Terrier.”
“Well he’s not a British aristocracy. He’s a dog.”
[LOBO]
hump-wrrrrrrrr!
Starboard.
Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre paced his deck pensively, and the sound was excruciating. The seasoned Captain, missing his right leg below the knee, had a peg as pirates do. But on his good foot, he had taken to wearing a rollerblade.
-Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre has been clocked at 35mph.
Thump-wrrrrrrrr!
Stern.
Stressed and sleepless, the sound was impossible to ignore. Only Vetter, nestled comfortably in a nest of comically large-seeming rope, snoozed deeply. Even Nuk and Futz clocked the Captain, Max, and Brighta warily.
The captain, staring into the brilliant nighttime horizon, gave deep sigh to the salty air.
Max, balancing a long dagger on his fingertip, never took his eyes off of Brighta as he addressed the Captain.
“The treasure is there,” he assured.
Brighta, arrow knocked, eyed Max with cool regard. Brighta could put three arrows in Brighta before he could close the distance between them. The Captain, however, kept pacing between them, making this geometrically a white-knuckled triangle of potential combatants. It occurred to Brighta that Max was probably clocking the Captain more than letting on too.
“I’m confident this is true,” replied the Captain with almost a sarcastic lack of conviction.
Thump-wrrrrrrrr!
Bow.
“We’re lost,” mumbled Portre softly to the masthead –a wooden mermaid, tail deep in foam, rising before the cloven sea. Pivoting on his peg, he leaned back to watch his unwitting hostages -mostly to ensure they were not listening.
Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually. From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”
“It’s unclear,” replied the mermaid.
Portre guffawed and spat. “I am weary of your ambiguity.”
“Ambiguity? You've sailed seven with no food on a map a dog gave you.”
“You never told me First Mate Noodlecakes was a dog.”
“You never told me First Mate Noodlecakes was a dog.”
“Yes I did,” replied the mermaid. “When he told you ‘I’ll bite your balls off if you get near the treasure,’ I explained to you that he was a Yorkshire Terrier.”
“Well he’s not a British aristocracy. He’s a dog.”
Friday
Critics
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“What if I planned it for months?” I ask. “And even got tattooed with the prison schematics?”
“Your readers would recognize it,” replies Terri. “As a central plot device on the television series Prison Break, sprinkled with random and improbable scratch-off lottery ticket winner stories.”
“Yes, but I’m not in prison,” I remind her.
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