Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"Consider how he
thinks. The dinosaur, the Bronze Age, the Industrial Revolution, World War II ... along with the rest of history, they are all
BL and cannot possibly have any effect on him
today. As a consequence, he considers it all entirely irrelevant."
"BL?"
"Before LOBO."
"Huh."
The computer beeped twice. Some kind of alert. Saint Peter turned and read the new info through the bottom of his glasses. "Says here LOBO is currently engaged in harassing the elderly."
"Is it in traffic?"
"No. That wouldn't count."
*****
LOBO's eyes alternated from the thick file to Mister and Misses Driskel in a cold and calculating manner.
"Farmers, eh?" he sighed finally.
Theodore Lawrence Driskel of Clawson City, Utah, was quite frazzled. They had driven twenty hours to get here, and the rather aggressive "interview" was now in it's third hour. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses with shaky, liver spotted hands. "Yes sir."
Examining the file, LOBO's eyebrows lifted. "Soybeans?"
"Yes."
"I fucking
hate soybeans" LOBO growled.
Ellenor Jean Driskel --AKA "Ella"-- interupted. "We also grow green beans and corn--"
"--
Silence!" LOBO's icy glare skewered her. "I'll get to
you in a minute," he snarled. Spreading the file with his fingers, he tapped his fingers on Ethan's broad desk. "So you both have made roughly $45,000 a year for the last ten years, have excellent, well,
immaculate credit, with the exception of filing bankruptcy in 1974."
Theodore and Ella looked at each other in mild discomfort.
"Relax," says LOBO, smiling like a hungry python. "That's why we're here. You're doing fine." He browsed the files some more. "Psychological profiles are good. And you both passed the physical and drug test with flying colors." He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "No criminal record?"
"No sir," replied Mister Driskel. "We're regular church-going, God-fearin plain folk. Ella plays the organ for the Sunday service."
"No criminal record
whatsoever?" LOBO inquired.
"No sir," repeated Mr. Driskel.
LOBO sighed, slipping a blue sheet of paper out from under the stack. "Well, unfortunately, we've found
this."
It was a Chicago parking ticket from 1968.
"I'm sorry you've come all this way," he continued, "but I'm afraid this responsibility cannot be just fobbed off to common liars and criminals."
Ella burst into tears. "I'm sorry Theo! I never told you--"
Theodore Driskel patted Ella's hand comfortingly.
"--the Democratic National Convention was so
packed. I only wanted to drop off some cookies and bandages for the protesters."
LOBO shook his head disappointedly. "As I said, I'm sorry. Please see yourselves out as I have a very busy schedule."
"So that's
it then?" said Mister Driskel, squeezing Ella's hand gently. "We're getting turned down because of a forty year old
parking ticket?"
"No," replied LOBO coolly. "You're getting turned down because your wife is a filthy lying anarchist and a cheap, wrinkled nationalist pinko
whore. We could've
won Vietnam if not for you peacenick
Abbie Hoffmanites--!"
"--Now
just a minute young man!" demanded Mister Driskel, standing. "I don't know exactly who you think you
are--"
LOBO looked up with great interest as Mister Driskel rolled up his flannel sleeves.
"--but I'm not going to sit here and take you insulting my wife
any longer!"
LOBO leaned back in Ethan's chair, grinning. "Fiery! Protective! ... I
like that." Pulling out a long, bulleted checklist, he ticked off two points. "That put you at a final score of 210 out of a possible 300." Smiling, he folded his hands together and pointed roughly at the old couple with his paralleled index fingers. "And that's marginally
passable".
Mister Driskel froze, confused. There was a stunned silence, interrupted periodically by Ella heavy sobbing.
LOBO opened a deep drawer, and produced a tiny white and brown spotted kitten. "Congratulations. It's name is
Meowy." Recently informed that it's impossible to tell a cat's sex for several weeks by Ethan, LOBO had tried to stop randomly assigning genders to them. It was, after all, a somewhat important matter, and he had decided to give them some privacy in that regard.
Mister Driskel took the miniscule animal, and sat, arm around Ella as she heaved uncontrollably.
"There there, Emma," soothed LOBO as he offered a tissue. "You understand that a rigorous screening process in
necessary, right?
"That's
Ella," corrected Mr. Driskel.
"Whatever. Say, are you guys hungry?"
"Well, actually ... " sniffed Ella.
"Well, too bad you can't stay. But there's a pancake house right up the road on the way to the freeway. You can go there right after you fill out all the paperwork Miss Sapphire has for you on the way out. Goodbye."
The Driskels collected themselves, and hobbled for the door.
"Oh," added LOBO, standing to see them out. "One more thing. Meowy gets milk and
Eukanoba everyday. And
albacore tuna on Sundays ... not that
crap tuna."
"Got it," says Mister Driskel.
"And I'll be checking up periodically," continued LOBO. "If Meowy isn't getting his shots regularly and very
happy in his new home, I'll come to Clawson City, cut your fucking commie nuts off, and feed 'em to Phil in a lobster
bisque."
***
LOBO walked in and simply collapsed on the couch.
"How'd it go?" I asked with mild interest.
"Well, I found a home for Meowy," he replied.
"You've been at this for weeks," I says. "How many have you found homes for so far?"
"Two," said LOBO. "But I'm rethinking the Stillsons. I think I could do better for Bob."
"You've really got to let this go at some point."
"Maybe." LOBO picked up his paperback copy of Chuck Palahniuk's
Choke. Again I watched. I've never actually witnessed LOBO
read before, and that particular book has been sitting --upside-down and split open almost perfectly in the center-- on the coffee table, for over six months unmoved. It left a dustless clean rectangle.
And just as I suspected, LOBO lay back and set the book over his eyes.
"I guess you heard that the Liberty Bell got cracked by the trucking company," I says.
"Yeah. Now
nobody'll want the damn thing."
"Did you try ebay?"
"Nah. I already got Max, Brighta and Vetter trying to get rid of it. I told 'em to sneak into some kind of battle somewhere and ditch it so's nobody will suspect it was my fault."
A few quiet minutes passed.
"Did me being alive really fuck up Sapphire's boob job?" he finally inquired.
"Amongst other things, yes."
"How come nobody tried to talk her out of it?"
"Because whenever women get a boob job, they're typically really anxious to show them off."
"She doesn't
need a boob job," says LOBO from under the book.
"But that's not really the
point, is it?" I was losing interest in this conversation fast, not particularly interested in LOBO's pontification on the matter. Still, I couldn't resist. "How would
you know if Sapphire needs a boob job? And for that matter, why do you
care?"
"I guess I'm just not a big fan of unnecessary surgeries I suppose. She's already beautiful."
"But then she would be beautiful
and have gigantic cans. I'm not following you here. What are you, gay?"
LOBO sighed. "Look, if my ex-wife didn't make me gay,
nothing will." He paused. "I guess I'm just a little skeptical when I hear about women putting themselves through excruciating and expensive pain voluntarily.
Particularly when they say that
'I'm doing it for myself' bullshit. I don't get it."
"Well having babies isn't exactly a picnic. And I hear kids end up costing hundreds of bucks what with college and all."
Pause.
"Yeah, maybe they
are all fuckin nuts."
And LOBO fell asleep.
The long and winding hitchhike home from Hollywood to beloved Pianosa has really inhibited my ability to blog.
I only caught the tail end of the story on the radio, but I immediately knew who the story was about ... and all I can say is it's about time that filthy whore was exposed for the tramp she really is.
For the woeful few of you that haven't been reading Predator Press since inception, you should know that I regard the 'American Farmer' as the most lazy, worthless, ignoble and unpatriotic occupation known to humankind: all they do is hog immense amounts of land, obstruct much-needed superhighways and airports, provide an occasional vehicle for Pauly Shore movies, and grow the most gruesome looking flowers I've ever seen.
One merely has to glance at a "farm" in America to witness hideous evil and atrocity. I mean how much inbreeding has to take place before you get a dog that looks like this monstrosity?
