Future LOBOnian-American Diplomatic Relations in Question

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I remember "coming to" vaguely.

-A balding man, typing with one finger, is asking me questions I am answering on autopilot.  He fills out forms -replete with scan-friendly magnetic bar codes- in handwritten immaculate print as he examines my birth certificate.  On the counter in front of me is my two-inch thick manila folder containing my identity.  A tattered copy of the current Scientific American -which I pretend to understand intensely when I think I will have time to kill in public- is pushed aside in cramped space.

The hands of a plain clock on the wall, the kind I remember staring at endlessly in school, says 8:35.  The bleak sunlight fighting in though the glass doors twenty feet to my right suggest it is morning.

Isn't this Saturday?

"Would you like to be an organ donor?"

I notice a large picture on the wall of the Illinois Governor, obviously fake-smiling with big, crazy teeth.

He looks clearly insane.

Oh no.

"No," I reply.  "Nothing works anymore anyway," I lie suspiciously.

Cumbersome American laws require you to update an address change on your drivers license within 30 days.   LOBOnia -the mobile ten foot sphere that surrounds me at all times- has agreeable trade relations with America, so a scant three years later I deigned to acquiesce at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I am apparently awake about halfway through the process.

I died in my sleep and went to Hell.

But I have apparently planned for this in advance.  I am dressed nice, and remember promising myself to try and smile for the photo.  You know, try and change my Karma?  Still, this is a shitty, shitty way to wake up.

-In the subsequent photo of a man trying to force a sincere smile after going through the DMV,  I am obviously fake-smiling with big, crazy teeth.

I look clearly insane.

Sickbag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Just yesterday I felt like this:

Artist's rendering of LOBO clinging to life by a fingernail

But now I'm totally back to normal:

Driver's license photo taken at noon

As you can see, I had the typical DMV experience.  But I'm in too good a mood to complain about it.  This Erythromycin stuff is amazing.

Yes, it makes your poop into something akin to railroad spikes ... but if you avoid using the bathroom at night (so the clanging and sparks don't wake everyone up), everything else is peachy.

Heroes Come In All Shapes And IQs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Is there anything worse than a bored cop?

Seriously?

Wait.

-I should back up a little.

Terri and I got here in California a year ago, and just today got our drivers licenses straightened out. Long story short, we would go to the DMV and they would tell us we needed “X” document. So we would mail for “X” document, receive it weeks or months later, and return to the DMV only to find out we needed “Y” document too.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Anywho, Terri picked up a ticket a few months ago because the address on her license wasn’t current. Haha. Ain’t that a kick in the pants? So immediately from the DMV we go to the police station to get the ticket signed. From there, we head for the courthouse to pay the fine.

Now I’ve never been to this courthouse before, and it doesn’t cross my mind we have to go through a metal detector until we’re standing in front of it. Belt, keys, wallet, watch and cellphone are dropped into a little plastic tray, and I proceed to the far end of the X-Ray machine.

“Can I see your cellphone again please?” says the security woman. Talking to Terri and trying to get my belt back on, I hand it to her more on autopilot than anything.

But after a few moments, it appears something is amiss. She’s got my phone out of it’s holster, and staring. Then she looks at the X-Ray screen. Then back at the phone. She calls a nearby police officer over.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Well, I can’t figure this out,” she says. Pointing at the screen with her pen, she draws a circle around a globular shape. “What’s that?”

I recognize it. Shit. “That’s not my phone,” I reply reaching for my wallet. “It’s this Tool Logic doohickey.”

"Tool Logic doohickey" is a technical term for a credit card-like set of miniature tools Ethan got for me a few years ago; I slipped it into my wallet, and haven’t thought of it since. It’s got a little set of tweezers, a can opener, and –unfortunately for me- a small blade.

Now enter bored cop.

-Bored cop that now has his hand on his firearm.

“Didn’t you see the red signs everywhere?”

Terri and I look around.

None.

“What red signs?”

“The signs outside that say no weapons in the courthouse.”

I’m perplexed. “Weapon? That’s a tool. It says so right on the side in big bold letters.” I point at the prominent TOOLLOGIC logo. “See? T-O-O-L. And seriously. Who am I going to kill with that? You guys got some kind of rabbit infestation or something? My belt is actually deadlier if you think about it ...”

I suddenly realize the tension of the situation is rapidly escalating. Everyone in the large foyer has grown ominously silent, and all eyes are on us.

-This guy is serious.

Curses! My diabolical plan to commandeer this podunk courthouse and fly it into the World Trade Center has been foiled.

“I could take you to jail for trying to smuggle this in here,” he says. He’s a smaller guy than I am, but he’s doing that well-practiced cop body language thing, half-designed to corral me to the side, and half to intimidate.

But I ain’t some spray-on tan local red-eyed fruitflake: I’m from Chicago, fuckwad.

-You start the music, you get the dance.

“Stand back everyone!” I demand a loudly. “Or I'll open every goddamned envelope in this place!”

The Dead See

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind them; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist fills the air. Dismembered chunks of flesh and bone slide and fall wet into a growing pool of human viscera.

Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the room. They try to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, one hiding employee can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the thick smoke, calmly and systematically advancing through the room, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots, and the drywall resonates the obscure marching rhythmic beats of each explosion as life ceases one by one by one…

“Next,” calls the woman with disinterest.

“Hi!” I says cheerily. “I need to renew my driver’s license.”