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.

Movers and Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Way, way back in this blog, I mentioned managing an orphanage.

-As a successful entrepreneur, I feel it's important to give back to the community.

Well I’m proud to announce that according to StreetWise Magazine, my orphanage was far and away the most profitable in 2009. Nationwide!

The children hosted an awards dinner I was expected to attend, but I declined the invitation. (Remember, I do the budget for that place ... I’m not eating that crap.) I figured a more suitable reward for my accomplishments would be a ceremony held at the Hilton Brazil -an infinitely classier place, so far from the scrubby little bastards they couldn't dream of attending. They smell funny.

-And they would have been bored anyway. I’ll send them some pictures. They’ll be thrilled.

Unfortunately orphans don’t know shit about music, and any consideration to upgrading their food to real gruel instead of the imitation stuff was immediately forgotten when I heard the samba band they hired: the dense crowd of aristocrats and I were assaulted with the stabbing sound of a maraca player either drunk, a rhythmless incompetent idiot, or both.

Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastard’s throat. "You butcher!" I scream. "You talentless hack! You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"

While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the offender; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"

As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.

I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case. They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.

... And halfway through 'Copa Cabana,’ members of the audience were weeping.

Resolutions

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man, I'm freaking tired.

The pace at work over the last few months has been nothing short of blistering: I like the cool lab coat and all, but if I would have known that stem cell research would be so time consuming I woulda scraped out those Petri dishes right into the toilet a long time ago.

The Christmas 'break' was all jammed up too. I mean besides the usual shopping, police harassment and anarchy, I was working a grueling schedule donating my time teaching orphans to shoplift after school: there's just nothing like the sense of satisfaction you get when you look into the gleeful, hungry eye of one that has just boosted his [or her] first iPod.

I would still be doing those $20 seminars, but one of the more entrepreneurial of the little pricks lifted my wallet. Can you believe that? Man, you can't trust nobody nowadays. They're fiercely loyal to each other too: I practically hadda squish poor lil Jimmy through a fine mesh screen before he tearfully broke down and ratted on his own brother. Growing up in that decrepit old house together must have fostered some pretty serious bonding --and I don't mean decrapit in the 'quaint' sense of the word either: that place is a total dump. Too bad it didn't foster some taste instead.

But things are winding down to a crawl, and now I have the leisure time to design and develop my Evil Robot Minions. Chrysler says they can bring my Peacekeeper v1.1 into production for the paltry sum of $458,596,054.13 apiece, which is about $458,596,032.65 more than Jimmy's scumbag orphan brother left on my debit card. Now I have to decide between rewarding loyal lil Jimmy with the winter coat I promised him or cup holders.

... But I happen to be very fond of Starbucks, and the last thing Jimmy's shithole needs is moths.

Bilge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I got up early. Showered, shaved, pony tailed, suited, the works.

I would go as far as to say I looked rather dapper.

But 16 miles at 105 MPH in 17 degrees with my car door bungee-corded shut changed the game a little … My hair, still wet when I left, has flash-frozen closely to my head.

Goddamnnit, it’s perfect. I mean seriously: my hair is magnificent. Maybe I don't need a new car after all ...

And as predicted, Ethan really doesn’t seem to care about me getting some time off, as long as I get it cleared with the Director of Operations.

The Director of Operations, of course, is Cobe.

Houston, we may have a problem.


***

“We have concerns about how the corporate image Predator Press has evolved this year,” he says.

“Our image is fine,” I insist impatiently.

“Really?” says Cobe, thumping a big file on his desk. “Assault on a noted environmentalist, the attempted homicide of Santa Claus—“

“Okay fine. We’ve hit some speed bumps,” LOBO admits. "Look, I'll give you a quarter--"

Cobe’s eyes narrow. “You also tried to have me killed,” he says thinly.

“It was for a good cause,” I offer.

“Well, I think you should have to postpone your vacation until you have done something to repair the tarnish public image we are enduring.”

“What about all my charity work?”

“Ah, yes. Breast and Ovarian Cancer,” Cobe replies. “I would like to see something a little more tangible. Something more visible on a local level.”

“Like what?”




***

So I’m sitting outside the Kmart, freezing to death.

Dressed as Santa Claus.

I bang my bell on the red pot, yelling at bewildered customers through my fake beard. “You unpatriotic, cheapskate deadbeats! The French could kick the crap out of this so-called 'Army' … !”

Yes, I Like Vagina

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Stop feelin sorry for Legless Jim!

I drew the short straw when in came to LOBO's charity work.

To raise money for ovarian cancer research, I have to hawk these "Yes! I Like Vagina!" T-Shirts ...