Xanadu

LOBO -Predator Press

While ruling out a torn cruciate ligament via MRI, Doctor Gudenstont found a bullet my ankle.  Getting it non-surgically reduced requires a series of lethal injections, so I'll be home for a few weeks.

Of the hundreds of screeners I haven't watched, I picked "Terminator:Genysis." Why I could not tell you.  But an hour in, I found myself seething in a blind rage.  I wanted to burn down the theater.  The fact I couldn't because I live here only redoubled my frustration.  After a ceremony to appease various gods, now I have to watch this steaming crap at a friends house, and then burn that place down.

Gina pulled up as I was returning the can of gasoline to the shed.

"If the bad terminators only need to kill Reece or Sarah Connor," I bark, "why do they spend the whole damn movie fighting with Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"What? "asks Gina, still getting out of the car.  "Hey.  Is that gasoline?"

"Give me a hand with it," I says, wobbling clumsily on my cane.  "I have a bullet in my leg."

"You have a cyst in your ankle," she corrects.

"Everyone knows 'cyst' is a medical euphemism for 'bullet.'" I argue.  "They do that for insurance reasons."

"The oil change guy wanted to charge me forty dollars for windshield wipers," she says.  "Can you imagine?  This car isn't even a year old."

"Well ..."

"What?"

Having a bullet in your leg makes it hard to run serpentine.  I hesitate.  "I've been meaning to mention that.  Your windshield wipers are an eyesore.  The neighbors are talking.  This can't go on."

"That's ridiculous," she says.

"Is it?" I says.  "Every day you pull up with those droll windshield wipers, I have to go into damage control.  It's fine that you are making some hippie statement.  But don't think I don't suffer the consequences."

For some reason, I'm not allowed to have a shed key anymore.

Doctor Gudenstont

LOBO -Predator Press

"Hi Doctor!" I feel impelled to wave. She is only three feet away, but through her enormous magnifying glass, her eyeball alone is the size of a football. "Is 'Gudenstont' French?" I ask.

Doctor Gudenstont, alternating blue footballs at me, appears not to hear the question. "Vee shall have to do many, many tests on you," she concludes. "Many very painful tests." Without taking her alternating eyes off of me, she presses a button on the nearby telephone.

"Nurse Garrison?"

"Yes," came the almost instant disembodied reply.

"I vill need lots of needles. A hammer, and a pair of pliers ..." Her gigantic pupil dilates. "And a bone saw," she adds.

"The burlap sack labelled 'LOBO'?"

"Ja."

"Thank you doctor. I have been waiting a long time for this. I'll be right in."

"Hey," I argue with the footballs and disembodied voice. "I am a sculpted, athletic Adonis, and I've put numerous decades of hard work into achieving this body. I'm not falling for whatever insurance insurance scam you are trying to pull here."

Suddenly, Doctor Gudenstont jumped through the window of her own 15th floor examination room! I ran to the shattered window, watching in disbelief as she plunged toward the pavement. Then, a para-sail popped out, and she floated to a nearby waiting helicopter.

"Haben Sie das erreicht, dafür Sie gekommen sind?" The pilot yelled.

"Nein!" Doctor Gudenstont replied.

And as I watched them escape, diminishing over the horizon, I knew my fate was sealed. The die had been cast.

-Doctor Gudenstont is pretty cute for a French chick.

Feminist CDC Scientist Identifies Himpes Venereal Disease

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"The implications are clear," warns Doctor Kimberly Eisner, a Senior Researcher at the Center of Disease Control.  "What we have here is clearly a pandemic in the making."

She is among the first scientists to discover that in blind experiments, when control groups of men walked around with catfish and certain strains of small mouth Bass in their underpants, painful cuts, lesions and rashes often appear on the male penis.

Most scientists attribute this to attacks by hungry and feral neighborhood cats, and question her motives and methods.  Nonetheless, the Obama Administration recently granted her a twelve million dollar research grant to investigate the issue further.

"Men who walk around with catfish and certain strains of small mouth Bass in their underpants deserve a cure just like anybody else," Eisner insists.  "The debilitating effects are horrifying to see, perhaps rivaled only by those who like to wear live hand grenades in their underpants."

But is it Artery?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Oh my God. I knew it,” remarks Barbarossa, pointing in horror at a visible wire hanging below my shirt. “You’ve been assimilated into the Borg.”

“Don’t be silly,” I says. “It’s a portable EKG.” I pull up the shirt to show the tangled nest of wires and nipple-like stickers affixed to my torso -all running to a box on my belt, not dissimilar in size and shape to a walkman.

Barbarossa, visibly alarmed, stares in jaw-agape silence.

“It’s alright,” I laugh. “It turns out my heart beats faster than normal –and even stops on occasion. Doctor Nyarlathotep obviously wants to study my hyperactive, ultra efficient heart -a superheart if you will- for the medical benefit of mankind. Just like when he has all those psychiatrists study my brain. ”

“It kinda looks like you have a bomb strapped to your chest.”

“Really?” I ponder this, slightly disappointed. “Even with the string of Christmas tree lights I ran through it?”

“Yeah,” Barbarossa nods. “You better hope they don’t say anything at work. And won’t it trip the security scanners at the door?”

I shrug.

“I hate to mention it,” he adds, “but my dad had to wear one of those the year he had a heart attack.”

“Not to question your medical credentials Doctor,” I guffaw dripping sarcasm, thumping my chest. “But this little black thing isn’t attacking anyone.” Pausing a moment, I add a thoughtful disclaimer. “But I wouldn’t put it to the test, either. It’s perfectly capable of ripping your face off if so inclined.”

Barbarossa ponders this gravely, remembering his father -in those final months- taking prescription pills labeled ‘Nitro Glycerine.’

“You better get in soon,” I says, irritated with Barbarossa’s visible squirming over concern for my health. “I don’t want you late on your first day. You going to finish those mozzarella sticks, onion rings and French fries?”

“Nah,” says Barbarossa, pushing them to me as he stands. “But it’s probably not a good idea for you to eat that stuff.”

“Pthbbt,” I says. “I doubt my digestive system would even know what to do with a vegetable. Besides, I’m drinking a diet Coke. Remember?”

“Blech,” Barbarossa winces in acknowledgment. “Well, I’m going to go in early to make a good impression. Thanks for getting me the job.”

“Nrrp prrbllm,” I says, chewing. “Now go bust your ass so I don’t look like a fucktard for it.”

“Okay.”

I watch Barbarossa enter the building, and ten minutes later the shift bell sounds. At that point I get up and slowly meander into the building, finishing my cigarette.

-Unlike Barbarossa, I’ve already been working here for two weeks; I’m almost expected to be late every day.

It’s called a “Power Move.”

I’m sending a message to The Suits.

I slide my card at the door, enter, and hang my jacket in the in the antechamber.

My thoughts drift the afore mentioned security scanner. It is two slender black pillars -immediately between where I must clock in and the rest of the warehouse- that must be walked through.

This EKG thing won’t set those off, will it? I’m thinking. Just play it cool. Proceed like nothing is fucked whatsoever.

And I pass through without incident.

That dumbass Barbarossa doesn’t know shit, I smile to myself, picking up pace to get to my station.

Unfortunately –regarding “Power Moves”- my company doesn’t know shit either. Because apparently they just had a brief meeting alerting everyone else that they were testing the fire alarms this morning …

Quack Attack

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring at the doc staring at my bare foot, it occurred to me how seldom it is I'm not wearing shoes, socks -something- on my feet in public.

-The last time I remember trying that was two months ago, hobbling around on crutches in a splint for a short walk: all that came of it was learning my Early Warning System's calculation of how much broken glass lay about was a woefully underinflated quantity.

Maybe I contracted hepatitis.

The doc twists my aching ankle at impossible angles, and I try not to squirm. C’mon LOBO, I’m thinking. This is minor. Be a man. It’s not like you’re Joe Theismann-

The doctor, momentarily satisfied with the knot tying on my lower leg, sits back on his heel and adopts a thoughtful expression.

“Nyarlathotep?” he asks.

I scowl. “What team does he play for?”

“No,” he corrects. “I mean Doctor Nyarlathotep gave you the referral to see me?”

“Oh,” I says. “Yes. Sorry. I was thinking about sports medicine, football-”

He smiles as he stands, and peers deeply into backlit x-rays of my Adonis-like ankle. “You’re a football fan too, eh?”

“Yeah,” I says blandly, experimentally wiggling my toes. “I used to live around the corner from the Chicago Bears’ training camp.”

“Well you have a lot of ligament damage,” he says. Clicking his pen, he grabs my chart and scrawls some notes. “But I can correct that with a very simple outpatient surgery.”

“Huh,” I says. “So doc, who is your team?”

Don’t say Packers. Don’t say Packers …

“The Rams.”

I don’t remember anything after that.

-But I’m pretty sure I screamed.

The Alabaster Battlemaster

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Discovering I was down to 12 heartbeats an hour, Doctor Nyarlathotep grew concerned and tested my blood.

"Playing Battlefield 2 sixteen hours a day is terrible for your health," he points out. "You need sunlight. I can see the organs pulsing through your skin."

"Really?" I says, squinting under the harsh lighting of the examination room. "I hadn't noticed."

And as always, my blood got an A+ ... clearly showing an intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods.

"-that I'm sent from above. I'm not that innocent! Oops I did it again ... I played with your heart-"

A disbelieving Nurse Garrison lowers her stethoscope.

"You swallowed your iPod again, didn't you?"

"Maybe," I reply.

Mom ‘N Dad: New World Disorder

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A little woozy and “loose” from the drugs alcohol, she suppressed a giggle; from this angle she had a rare view of not only his black socks, but the bottom of his shoes. They always appeared gigantic and comically elongated from underneath.

“Is that a new suit darling?”

“Why yes my love,” the man preened. He stood and did a half twirl. Funny, but kinda swank with the big cigar. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think we can afford it.”

“But I closed that purchase we wanted," he puffs. "You're looking at the second largest asbestos manufacturer in the Midwest. I can't go around dressed like a chump you know. Me ‘an you are going places baby. I love you. You are my oxygen.”

Sitting, he swings the metal tray back over her and pours a two shots of Wild Turkey.

“Thank you,” she replies.

“How’s about me ‘an you take a vacation? Huh baby? Maui. Italy. Australia. You name it.”

“Scotland,” she smiles.

“Cigarette?” he asks, fumbling his vest.

“Please.”

While presenting the Camel, he extends the pack to the young Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep.

“No thanks,” says the pup lowering his stethoscope.

-Despite just graduating from medical school, there was no mistaking this diagnosis.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," he says finally.

“That’s terrible,” says the man. “Would you like a shot?”

“I mean terrible news for you,” he replies.

The man poured himself a shot.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor sighed. “She’s pregnant.”

The man drank his shot.

“I can’t be pregnant,” laughed the woman.

“Yes,” agreed the man after a satisfied gasp. “She’s just getting really fat.”

“Nope,” says the doctor, holding X-rays up to the light. “Preggers.”

The man gasped. “How long do we have, Doc?”

“Not long,” he says studiously, turning to the man. “Those stomach cramps are actually contractions. You may want to go downstairs and pace around in an anxiety-addled state for a few hours.”

“But if I were pregnant," asks the woman, "wouldn’t I know? I mean wouldn’t he have moved or something by now?”

The doc continues to study the illuminated X-Rays. “Look, I’m not telling you the kid isn’t lazy.”

The woman grabs the man’s hand. “Baby this is wonderful!”

“Yes,” says the man, tracing his finger across the hospital Fire Escape map. “The Maternity Ward is two floors down, and there’s a set of stairs-“

“We’re way ahead of you,” says the doc. “It has been bricked up for four years now.”

“Darling,” she insists. “We’ll have the pitter-patter of little feet running across the pool deck of out summer home.” Wistfully she sighs, “And with you being an asbestos magnate, he can go learn with the greatest minds of our time at the finest of Ivy League schools.”

Exasperated, the man looked down at his her, still clasping his hand hopefully.

And after what seemed an eternity gazing into those big beautiful blue eyes, his icy heart finally melted.

“Jesus, I hope he's white,” she adds.

Lady McDeath

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep puts down his stethoscope.

“So the patient has no issues with drugs or alcohol?”

“No,” replies Terri.

Nurse Garrison peers over her glasses. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m comin’ Elizabeth!” I call loudly from my hospital bed.

“Who the fuck is ‘Elizabeth’?” Terri growls.

“This could be serious,” says the doctor. “One single not properly refrigerated Filet-O-Fish is the equivalent of-“

“Doc,” says Terri. “He has faked his death on this blog thirty times.”

“Word,” nods Nurse Garrison from behind the clipboard.

“Twenty six!” I correct loudly from my hospital bed.

“-but if you think for one second,” Terri continues, “I’m going to let you jack me up on this hospital bill, I’ll stuff that stethoscope so far up your-“

I suddenly sit bolt upright, clutching my heart. “Cancel … my … subscription … to … Highlights ... Ack!”

... and then collapse.

Nurse Garrison lowers her clipboard. "In medical terminology, them's fightin' words."

"Oh please," says Terri. "He only subscribes so the mailman thinks he's smart."

Wizard of Wor

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I should probably preface this with the fact that I'm sick.

And before your mouse pointer goes soaring down to the "comments" thingy with your "I know!"s and "And how!"s, I don't mean that kind of sick. I mean like hay fever. 102 temperature. My skull feels like someone dropped a searing hot bowling ball in it, bolted it back shut, and then kicked it a few times to evenly swirl it all together.

I feel like crap. And not the good kind of crap -you know, the kind of crap that's all dolled up with crap sauce and a little sprig of crappy parsley? I mean crap crap. The Chinese food of crap: the crap that gets served in an unostentatious, blasé little cardboard box with sticks crap.

And on top of it all, Doctor Nyarlathotep took me out of service for the rest of the week.

I'm slightly irritable.

Remember when we were kids and the doctor took us out of school for a week? That meant an indefinite period of unlimited sleep, meals in bed, and unimaginable new high scores on Yar's Revenge and Galaga. Even the totally useless gesture of blowing into the cassette and jamming it roughly into the console to make it work provided a giddy sense of delightful anxiety.

But even the most rudimental of my motor skills seem fried. While sitting upright, I'm barely able to loll my exceedingly-heavy and Alka-Seltzer muddled braincase in any particular direction whatsoever, let alone seek amusement of any complexity.

Crap.

So now that the Universe has failed to amuse me even at the simplest and most fundamental level, I've moodily escalated from merely "irritable" to full-scale, "I want everybody dead! Now!"

I'm exaggerating of course. I don't want LadyTerri and the kids dead. And certainly not you.

Just mostly everybody else.

Mostly.

But alas, I'm helplessly daydreaming about all the stuff at my job that isn't getting done. And while the house is certainly loaded with the kids' modern and clearly superior video games I've never even tried, I'm distantly surfing the news through glazed eyes only halfway grasping daily new tragedy.

I don't 'idle' well. I am utterly unable to 'shut down'; my addled mind works in fits and starts ... like something will go terribly wrong if my attention lapses. So inevitably, I drift back to my word processor with nothing in mind whatsoever.

And this post manifests.

Curious.

I remember seemingly ages and eons of 'writer's block' ... and now it seems even my my own polluted biology can't shut me up.

So what is this 'writer's block' thing all about? It absolutely cripples young authors.

And why do I seem now so impervious?

As I've mentioned, my college English teacher singled me out in front of the class and read one of my badly-butchered paragraphs aloud. She underlined with great conviction how much she "resented having to deal with remedial students here at the college level".

That was a gift ... for as fate would play out, it is exactly this adversity that drives my pen today. Her venom made writing a simultaneously sweet and violently savage, selfish release.

Admittedly, writing is now my addiction.

My justice.

My revenge.

I don't need to be considered a good writer, and I enjoy every letter I type thanks to her.

From Hell's heart, I stab at thee.

If you would further indulge me a piece of advice for the aspiring new writer suffering from this 'writer's block' bullshit, I would grab them by the ears and scream, "It's all in your head dammit! You have plenty to say, just maybe not for this jaggoff critic you are trying to please! Now you fucking tell me!"

People like that "teacher" can be sadly conventional, stale, and frankly unforgivable murderers if you let them.

Sure, there's a lot to be said for the disciplines that formal training can give you. But you have to remember that there's a danger there: these people often want like-minded cookie cutter clones for "authors" ... an elite group of pompous asses whose opinions unilaterally agree on what is "art" and what is not.

I say screw that. Stop worrying about semicolons and proper deployment of your apostrophes. Find the 'voice' that communicates your thought; in time the rest will fall into place on it's own.

And speaking of 'thought', guard yours carefully. Test it frequently. Be open to potentially being wrong, and don't fault yourself too harshly when you are. I mean look at what you are up against for God's sake ... every news headline I've seen over the past few days isn't about the Myanmar disaster; it's about our irrelevant new election fodder -despite the fact that your local City Council Members and dog catchers have done more for your individual communities than these people ever could or would.

Want something "significant"?

Skip to page six.

Stamps Are for Pansies: I Collect Debt

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep will doubtlessly send me a bill for his unsuccessful attempt to get in my pants.

Corporations are really sneaky in this sense; pants on or pants off, either way you're screwed. That's why you always hear in sexual harassment cases the phrase, "was fired for rebuffing the boss' sexual advances."

"Advances," huh?

Hm.

Well good luck Doc. Get in line. I got so many bills, I don't even check the mail anymore. The postman just lobs my crap out of his jeep onto the huge pile in my front lawn, and once a year we hold a bonfire.

The reality is I collect huge and vacuous fabulous debt, and the more staggeringly titanic the better. Entire economies rise and fall based on my glorious and vast counter-acquisitions, the entire Nation depends on me to perpetuate them. I would go as far as to say that if I won the lottery, the United States would suddenly collapse as bill collectors nationwide were forced to lay off their staffs.

Who am I to send this fine and semi-talented workforce into poverty and squalor? As a deeply religious man, I rather admire that baseless and eternal optimism.

Just face it: my personal dedication to irresponsibility probably accounts for a full percent of employment in the country.

You all should be thanking me.

Especially you Student Loan deadbeats. Instead of even building a single colossal golden effigy of myself -or even sending a lousy Hallmark card for that matter- what thanks do I get for all the commerce I have provided?

Angry phone calls.

I majored in philosophy for Christ sakes ... the sensible thing would have been to write the whole damn thing off immediately. Have I ever embarrassed you at a used car dealership with your tragically flawed logic? No! Frankly I've been pretty classy about it.

And and bless my little black heart, I tried to get a job as a philosopher. I really did. I stopped shaving, and bitched about shit until the cops came. When MicroSoft asked me to submit a resume for the CEO of Future Technological Development position, I sent them a potted philodendron.

-To this day, MicroSoft has yet to develop a decent Philodendron scandens micans with USB inputs, and frankly I doubt they ever will.

These "jobs" as you call them are just flimsy pretexts for work. There. I said it. The first hurdle is actually going there, and it's all an uphill battle after that: even after the whole "showing up" debacle, people then expect you to stay there and do stuff for them all the time.

Then with whatever you’ve earned, you gotta pay the bills for the stuff that generally revolves around working, like clothes and reliable transportation.

Can you believe this circular logic?

Well I have news for you America: you ain't fooling nobody.

... But can I borrow $10?

Emergency Exit

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep finally peers up from his clipboard. "From the symptoms you've described, I'm going to recommend a colonoscopy."

I reflect on this quietly for a moment. "Well that ain't gonna happen. I'm claustrophobic. You'll never get me on a submarine."

"That's a periscope. But the principal is similar. We pass a fiber optic camera through the anus to look for abnormalities."

"Did you wash your hands afterward?"

The doctor sighs. "We want to do that to you."

"Jesus Doc, what the hell kind of website do you run?"

"It's to figure out how to treat you."

"Huh," I says, casually bumping my paper booties against the hospital bed. "But I don't think I could eat a whole camera really. And is that even sanitary? I would have to have a brand new one. Can you make 'em taste like pork chops?"

"We go the other way."

"Chicken?"

The doctor stares.

I laugh suddenly. "You couldn't possibly mean-"

Doctor Nyarlathotep nods.

"Well let me think this over," I says. I feel myself going pale. "Okay I thought it over. No."

"People just like you go through this every day."

"Every day? I doubt that. How could they walk?" Gripping the edge of the bed to keep my ass firmly planted, my knucles are turning white. "Is there such a thing as a semicolonoscopy?"

"The acquisition of these images is very routine."

"Routine?" I says, thinking quickly. "For an earache?"

"You said you had stomach cramps and-"

"No I didn't. I distinctly said 'earache'. You must've misunderstood." Looking at my watch, I feign surprise. "Oh my god. Is it 10 o'clock already?" Jumping off of the bed, I seize my clothes hurriedly. "I've got to get to a ... thing."

"Look," says the doctor. "I can understand your apprehensions. But we can sedate you if necessary."

"Well, hoo-wee that makes for an attractive offer," I says.

-Now I'm really in a hurry.

After the pants, I put on my shoes without tying them. "Sorry about that whole 'keyster' mix-up ... honestly, mine could sharpen a pencil right now. And don't worry about me suing you for malpractice or anything. 'Earache' and 'stomach cramps' sound so much alike, I can see where that can happen. Boy, we sure dodged a bullet there."

Still buttoning my shirt with one hand, I open the door and back out waving. "Well Doc, thanks a lot. I can't shake your hand right now because of these crazy shirt buttons. Damn these buttons! They're crazy. But rest assured I would if I had the time."

Doctor Nyarlahotep points to a rumpled pile of clothing with his pen. "You forgot your socks."

"Those, uh, were there when I got here. Bye now!"

Fore Science

Predator Press


[LOBO]

Following in the tradition of other great sages and intellects suffering from a deep crisis of Faith, I went golfing with Speedcat Hollydale.

As a natural born athlete, I derive much pleasure from sports: distraction might be just what I need.

"Fore!" I call. Throwing the golf ball up in the air, I smack it hard with the bat and it arced gracefully. The distance was good, but it landed far to the right of my target.

"Dammit!"

"That's a mean slice you have there," says Speedcat addressing his own ball. He had a curious habit of hitting the ball from the ground with a bent metal stick.

"You should let me take a mulligan," I protest.

"Not a chance," says Speedcat, concentrating. "I've already let you take six."

"But a daiquiri umbrella was stuck in my facemask!"

"Look," he says exasperated. "At some point you're just going to have to face the fact that you're gonna owe me that 100 bucks."

Whock

... Crash!

"Hah!" I says. "You didn't call your shot!"

"First, this isn't Pool. And second, that's the only damned window the police car had left!" Speedcat argued. "Speaking of which, we should get moving. That cop is bound to come out of that Dunkin' Donuts any second now."

"So you forfeit?"

"Like hell."

"All right, screw it," I says. Struggling under my protective sternum plate, I dig for my wallet.

'Your game was really off today," observes Speedcat. "What's bothering you?"

"I hadda get a blood test for the wedding," I concede. "The whole thing was very traumatizing."

"Did they find something wrong?"

"No. My blood got an A+, once again demonstrating it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods." I hand him a $100 bill. "I just feel like I was treated rudely from the start."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When I got to the medical center, I was very clear that nobody was gonna impale me except for Doctor Toboggans ... Especially not that quack Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep."

Speedcat paused from packing his clubs. "Well that sounds pretty straightforward actually."

"Yeah. But Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep was argumentative," I says, throwing my football shoulderpads in the trunk. "He was all, 'But Toboggans isn't that kind of Doctor,' and Toboggans is busy saving America from certain economic disaster,' blah blah blah."

"You're kidding," says Speedcat, tightening the knot on the kayak caddy. "Hey, watch out. Here comes the Zamboni."

"Thanks."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I asked him flatly what kind of 'medical center' the ignoramus was supposedly running devoid of such luminaries as Doctor Toboggans."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. The tranquilizer dart started taking effect."

The Exciting Electrical Elevator Endeavor

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep?" I wheeze weakly into the phone.

"LOBO? How did you get this number?"

"I peeked over Nurse Garrison's shoulder when she was filling out my chart."

The doctor sighed. Setting down his golf clubs, he eased back into the driver's seat of the cart. "She told me you have a sinus infection.”

"Then why do I feel like my brains have expanded, ripped through my skull and seeped out while a gnarly-toed bigfoot splashed around on them?"

"Because you have a sinus infection."

"I blame the boy," I says flatly.

"It's entirely possible. You did mention he was sick last week. You could have picked up what he had."

"Well this was most ill-conceived. He is by far the most expendable of us. I mean he can't get a job or drive a car ... and those tiny soft hands are poorly-suited for building even the most woefully small of colossal effigies of myself!"

The sky darkened suddenly, and the doctor looked up to see black clouds moving in. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the warm smell of rain filled the atmosphere.

“What the hell was that?" I says into the phone. "Where are you?”

“It’s a storm coming in,” replied the doctor. “I’m at the 17th hole of the Cancun Open.”

“What’s your handicap?”

"At the moment, you are. Get some Tylenol," suggested the doctor.

"I can't. I'm still stuck in the elevator."

"I thought you were rescued."

"Well, the elevator started working again. But just as I called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol to tell them everything was cool, Lord Likely got on and beat the control panel into slag with his cane.”

“They don’t make these confounded contraptions like they used to,” explained Likely. “And who is this Mandy person?”

“LOBO, I can’t help you from here. Would you please just call the fire department back?”

“They won’t answer,” I says sulkily.

“Tell this medical practitioner to fear not,” says Likely. “I’ve had Botter lay down at the bottom of the shaft and cushion our descent.”

“Will that work?” I ask Likely.

“I don’t know,” says Likely. “That’s why you have to go first. Botter is chocked full of spiky bones and so forth; he will need to be tenderized thoroughly before my Lordliness can attempt such a feat.”

“I’m ready Milord!” cries Botter from far below.

“Doc,” I says into the phone. “What if I jump, and then right before I smack into the ground, I swerve to avoid it?”

Doctor Nyarlathotep rolled his eyes just as the heavy rain began to fall. “It’s worth a try. But wouldn’t you just veer of into the side of the concrete elevator shaft?”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Resigned, I yell down, “Okay Botter, are you ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

To Likely, “And you’re sure he won’t move?”

“Dare he move a muscle, I shall beat him severely about the legs,” says Likely with command.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

After a brief moment, I step into oblivion.

“Oh wait sir!” cries Botter. “I forgot your Tylenol in the car!”

BLOG WARS

Predator Press

[LOBO]



Episode IVXIv.1b

A New Dope


On day six, I woke with a screaming headache.

Wincing, I pull open the curtains. The sun immediately sears itself into my brain.

I scream.

LadyTerri, phone pressed to her ear, rushes in. "What the hell happened?"

Holding the back of my head, I whine. "I don't know. I'm thinking maybe we should lay off my Jedi training for a while."

"You mean the training where you have to try to dodge me as I try to hit you with a frying pan?" She switches the phone to the other ear.

"The helmet helps. But with the blast shield down, I can't even see." Rubbing my throbbing temples, I look at her. "Who's on the phone?"

"I'm on the phone with the doctor for the results of your physical."

"My what?"

She dismisses me with her hand. "Yes Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep? He's fine for the fitness training?"

What the hell?

"Yes sir. I'm glad you all got a good laugh too," she continues. Pressing a button, she sets the phone on the table. Looking at me with some resignation she says, "Well, you're all set."

"Please elaborate," I says.

"For the fitness training program. You got approved."

Desperately, I searched my deeply-receded memory. The last thing I remember is going to church yesterday. I decided that my Chi needed some cleansing before I engage in the Holy War that is to come, and for a mere $1000 donation, the Catholic Church rushed me to the top of the list: I was issued a cross and four gallons of holy water almost immediately.

Peeking out the window a little more carefully, I survey the landscape. I see playing children and unkicked puppies. There are no panzer tanks in the driveway.

We must still be winning

"What happened after church?" I ask cautiously.

"Before or after you drank four gallons worth of Holy Daiquiris?"

"After," I reply, slowly putting things together.

"I'm not really sure. You swore a slurry oath to exact revenge upon someone and avenge something ... I don't know. Then you got frustrated because the police, fire department and newspapers kept hanging up on you."

... Traitors.

"And then you took off and signed up for a Premium membership at Cardinal Fitness."

"I thought he was offering mass!" I protest.

"Your trainer is supposed to give you an orientation in fifteen minutes."

"My trainer? Oh Jesus Christ. Please tell me you're joking. Honey, I've worked a long time to get this fantastic physique. I'm not gonna go ruin all that by going to a gym."

"You gave him a $500 retainer."

I scream again.


***

My "trainer", it turns out, is none other than Jimmy Orlando.

"Hey, don't you work for me?" I says sitting at his immaculate desk.

"Your payroll checks never cleared," he replies coolly.

"Well you never worked!"

He slides a paper under my nose. "LOBO, look. Just sign the goddamn waiver so we can get this over with."

"Fine," I sneer. Determined to not show any pain, I struggle against the weight of the pen and nonchalantly draw an 'X'. "How long is the tour?" I says, huffing slightly.

"About 45 minutes."

"You people are fucking monsters," I says. "We'll have to break this into two or three sessions. You do have cots, right?"

"No, Jar Jar" he grins.

"Well, can I have my steroids now please?"