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.

A Short Visit

LOBO -Predator Press

Holding the doorknob, I glance at Gina.

"It's a spider," I says.

"What?" asks Gina.

Cracking the door, I wince in the sunlight. Down on the welcome mat, there's a lizard.

"I'm in disguise as a lizard," it explains.

I stare.

"We've met before," it continues. "I'm the ghost of an armadillo you ran over in 2002."

I keep staring.

"But I was actually a textile worker killed during the Industrial Revolution," it points out. "Reincarnated as an armadillo. Understand?"

"You're the spider ghost of a textile worker reincarnated as an armadillo, and in disguise as a lizard," I repeat.

From behind, Gina sighs. "Does this happen every time you eat a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish?

Confused, my eyebrows furrow as I turn back to her slightly.

"Does what happen?"

Virtually Unrepentant

LOBO -Predator Press

Poring over my psychiatrist bills, I happened spot a new diagnosis. Now trust me, I have a lot of diagnoses. The fact that I spotted this one at all is probably due to my OCD.

But this one is a learning disability.

"Disease Synonyms:

•Basic learning problem in writing
•Developmental academic disorder
•Developmental disorder in expressive writing
•Developmental disorder, expressive writing
•Developmental expressive writing disorder
•Difficulty solving problems
•Difficulty writing
•Disturbance of cognitive learning
•Impaired ability to learn new material
•Information conversion problem
•Learning difficulties
•Slow learner"

I apparently have a "Disorder of Written Expression?"

Okay, let's forget that I graduated college. With Honors. Academic Dean's List. And that I make my bones doing business correspondence on a densely-crowded travel schedule. And that I run a webpage. Shit. I mean I know I don't write as frequently anymore, but that is tied more to travel fatigue, lack of inspiration, and general depression over a divorce. Did this hack quack mistake my shitty handwriting and charming sarcasm for a legit learning disorder? Or am I really sick, like a late onset kind of thing? I have been drug and alcohol free since February, and am even [mostly] vegetarian so I can accumulate enough Karma to be the biggest, bestest douchebag ever.

Why now?

I would have bought a reading disorder, seriously. If you put three simple, clear and unrelated traffic signs close together, I can't make any sense out of any of them. And I haven't finished a novel for pleasure in over five years. I can read a news story on the internet, but I confess the only "pleasure" reading I do anymore are electronic schematics. At work, given the choice between associated titles and SKU numbers, I have been going with the numbers for years. My den is an over-budget and uncompleted collection of projects: computers and cables and unassembled IKEA furniture, waiting to prop up and network the incomplete dreams I work so hard for.

It is a sacred place I hope is never finished.

It is a beautiful disaster.

Is Chantix Designed to Drive You Insane?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now to be fair, I had a similar experience with Zyban several years ago.  But thinking this was a different smoking cessation drug altogether, I wasn't expecting the same result: a gradual and subtle loss of sanity.

This time, however, my life was full of other explanations.  Currently a Receiving Lead for a media distributor, I occasionally have to be "spiky."  And I work six ten hour days every week with random days off: a lot of things such as irritability and errors could be explained by general fatigue. 

But sometime around my second week (I was in my fifth as of yesterday), I would experience odd things like insomnia, and, infinitely worse, dreaming my alarm clock went off.  Last Saturday, for instance, I made coffee, showered, and fiddle-fucked with my fantasy baseball team only to realize it was just after midnight.

My work-related error rates increased exponentially.  And with only four days left at this job, I would still like to secure a good reference ... but my judgment was getting really odd and inaccurate. And while I've never been late a single time in three years, I was late twice last week.

I stopped taking Chantix yesterday, but I feel like I owe a lot of apologies.  I did a lot of dumb and mean and inexplicable shit.  The biggest of which was at my soon-to-be ex wife Terri Sellay and her new squeeze, and it was EPIC douchebaggery on my part: imagine the worst, and multiply that by Wes Craven.  What was I thinking?  Until a few days ago, I was holding out some hope that the marriage could somehow be worked out, only to find out she's moved on to a new guy who is superior to me in virtually every way (except the hair.  I have great hair, to the point that it's not fair to compare me with other mortals).

Still, FUCK.  She's happy?

-Well, you can guess the rest.  It was a perfect storm of fuzzy Chantix-laced logic and crippling heartache.   I embarrassed myself, and only after being a total dick realized I have no business trying to stomp on their happiness.

Well shit.  I'm moving and starting a new job, and dropping Chantix like a hot rock.  And I promised to never contact my ex again -a promise very difficult to keep because I am so sorry for the way I behaved.

But I hope someday she randomly googles her name and finds this post, my apology to them both, and my hopes they stay this happy forever.

The Death of Sapphire

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I kind of vaguely remember taking the pills Jenny McCarthy gave me, and feeling calm and, well, productive.  God bless these things.  I recommend them to anybody.  They are all stamped "PLACEBO."

“So what's the deal with you 'recalling' Sapphire,” I ask bluntly. “Are you getting your troops together to finally invade this dump?”

RDO, gleaming teeth over Skype, countered.

”Let's just say having one of our best examples of technological innovation on a stripper pole diminishes our reputation,” he says. "We heard you were hurt in a fire where you work. How are you?”

“I'll be fine when my eyebrows grow back. But the plant is shut down. I have three weeks off until it's repaired.” I sigh. “This is nothing like when you rescued me on that island and I had eaten the four other survivors.”

”You were only stranded for nine hours."

“Those noble souls weren't getting any fatter,” I says. “So what are you going to do with Sapphire?”

”Scrap her for parts, and melt down what's left for an ultra-secret military invasion about to take place, that I'm not at liberty to talk about. At the moment. Right now.”

“Do you think she will let me have her stereo?”

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."

Alive, Undisputed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My best guess, when explaining the random fits of rage, would be a combination of lack of sleep and “Seasonal Affective Disorder” ... something I typically get in March. The extreme temperatures of the Midwest have made the outside extremely inhospitable and arguably deadly; the absence of warmth and sunshine coupled with the extended time trapped indoors has made for some frayed nerves -that the last few years have been fairly Hellish just pours gasoline over the whole condition.

I'm not sure how or if the poor sleep is connected, but it warrants consideration. My memory and ability to concentrate have notably suffered. This is probably how I lost my driver's license in the first place. While the identification card has since been located and recovered, I've been needled randomly while attempting purchases -most poignantly at a semi-local WalMart where I shopped weekly- where company policy was applied rather than common sense.

-I exploded in fury. And I would argue it was justifiable, thus I offer no apology and will never shop there again. Still, it's clear my general moodiness is obvious in all facets of my life. The few unwanted brushes with the general public seem to only exacerbate my angst; traffic and road construction triple the length of projects. People, somehow utterly oblivious to others, seem to obstruct my every move, and conversations seem disjointed, disconnected, analogous to a poorly-tuned radio. Quietly, I suspect that the intelligence of the population has dropped an average of fifty IQ points ...

Woman: What are teenage boys thinking when they look at me like that?

Me: They are plotting the shortest route to your ovaries.

Woman: Eeewe.  What do they think about when not looking at me?

Me: The shortest route to someone else's ovaries.


None of this is true of course. It's in my head.

A way to calm down and relax -as mentioned in a recent post- seems most imperative, lest another unlucky and unwitting individual face a massive supernova of my culminating, hair-trigger frustration.

Addressing the sleep issue seems the only approachable angle. I've spent the last week taking unwise amounts of time off of work, and indeed slept days away in my typical broken and haphazard fashion. My dreaming is wild and oddly exhausting: while not nightmares in the fearful sense, they are of wars, natural disasters, post-apocalyptic survival, almost borderlining into strangely rich and textured yet-unlikely adventures that would make little sense in “reality.” Colossal, impossible vessels -organic and bioluminescent in appearance- crash into crowded cities, killing untold tens of thousands as I watch in a helpless, macabre, and horrified awe. Abandoned houses I explore seem to change shape once inside, offering tunnels that could not fit in the architecture, precarious walkways, wide and dangerous chasms to jump, dungeons and underground waterfalls and streams, endless creatures to fight, puzzles to solve …

Admittedly, going insane isn't for everyone.

-But I'm digging it immensely.

Welcome to History Todd Akin

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I feel bad for Todd Akin, the Missouri Congressman who opposes abortion even in cases he coined "legitimate rape" because women's bodies resist pregnancy due to the shock.

This is what happens when you get your medical credentials from Wikipedia and have seen "Porky's" waaaay too many times.

The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Three weeks ago I requisitioned 100 Q-Tips and this morning I received, on official and spiff Predator Press stationary, the rejection letter.  Evidently a minimum of three contract bids are required.

So I either need to triple the money I make, or reduce bills below the excruciating level I live at now.  And with the American economy obviously flagging -and apparently dragging the LOBOnian down as well- I'm probably being more realistic addressing the latter at the moment.  But what am I supposed to do?  Cut High Definition out of my cable bill and watch football like poor people?

Why in America is it so hard to find an affordable modest, clean, crime-free apartment adjacent to an Emergency Room with a helicopter pad?

I Injured the Obliques!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I, the Mighty LOBO, must wear glasses now.

-And all this time I thought the "Alphabits" were just talkin' trash.

I Thin I Boke my Node

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I was thinking about the Facebook [FB] rollercoaster stock ride.

See, FB doesn’t yet have a platform designed for profit. But what interests me in stock in companies such as FB, Twitter, Apple and Google is much more long range: all these companies are vanguard explorers of the violent and barbaric technological fringe –something that I have been arguing since 1984 that would literally be the next step in Human Evolution.

Humankind, now able to communicate globally and instantaneously, has achieved virtual telepathy.

And whether you agree with me or not, at least admit these technologies aren’t going away anytime soon.

Further, these companies –assuming proper management- have patents. Thus, if my “theory” holds true, the advanced R&D in these companies can license these properties for commensurate fees. In short, you’re not just buying a website. You are buying technologies.

With a memo pad in one hand and a pencil in the other, I went to where any sane person does to mull important decisions, the bathroom, and decided to weigh the prospect. Hands full, however, I kicked the half-closed bathroom door open wide … completely forgetting my sneakers, virtually hugging bottom at the other side.

The door snapped back, and I saw stars.

-POW!!!

It didn’t bleed much at the time. Stopped in an hour or so. But in retrospect, I think everything swelled up and blocked it. Skip ahead to my morning shower nine hours later: no black eyes, but In the humidity the swelling presumably contracted. The urge to involuntarily blow my nose produced lightning-like blinding pain as I violently ripped the clotting and splashed twin black octopi -scabs and dried blood from both nostrils- audibly on the tub floor.

And then the real bleeding began.

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 …

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.

Forever is Our Today

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Forced into doing a job where I have to deal with the “Unboiled Masses,” I have caught a cold.

“Fornicorn” = A four-horned unicorn

-Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves. Many Predator Press readers jumped from tall buildings. Many Predator Press readers immolated themselves and then jumped from tall buildings.

And I kinda “get” the ones that immolated themselves. They effectively sterilized themselves instantaneously. But seriously what am I supposed to do with the “jumped from tall buildings” crowd?

Newt Gingrich "Seeing-Eye Orphan" Proposal Meets Cross-Platform Opposition

Hm?

So yeah I’m sick. And I’ve been babysitting Facebook and Twitter all day. To my surprise, a lot of people I’m fond of showed up.

"Books" = The Internet for Poor People

-And Unfinished Person did too!

I Live Today

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of you longtime readers may have noticed a few rerun postings on Predator Press, and the inevitable subsequent glaring absence of sanity, intelligence, wisdom and reason across the globe.

Stop immolating yourselves. Stop jumping from tall buildings. Stop immolating yourselves and then jumping from tall buildings: I’m going to level with you. It has been a tough year for your irascible-yet-lovable Chancellor of the vast LOBOnian nation.

And you have only yourselves to blame.

(Resume immolating and jumping now.)

I’m sure we can all agree a chiseled physical phenomena such as myself would and should be utterly devoid of mortal woe. But my body apparently wasn’t notified of these details, and after the epic clash of titans I endured in June –where Big Cereal's crimes against our mighty nation and Humanity required swift, lethal and benevolent payback (and a short jail term)- half of 2011 has been dedicated to recovery and rehabilitation.

I have no doubt that you all are working frantically on technologies that will make me even more immortal and indestructible. But as of yet I got diddly, and your utter failure in this regard is simply impossible to ignore: the LOBOnian Nation has no place for this level of incompetence. Don’t make me revoke your visas!



LOBOnian slackers will be de-meated, and their bones will be exiled!

Couple this ineptitude with my ongoing treatments for Tri Polar Disorder and Cryohydrotachophobia (the fear of rogue icebergs), a lot of travel, football season, various temporary restraining orders and lawsuits, a hangnail and a new job, and it should be clear why I haven’t been following up on this lack of progress with appropriate, eh, “motivation.”

The new job in particular is a pain in the ass. Every day I have to get up, go to it, clock in and stay there doing stuff for like fifty hours, and then clock out and do it all over again the next day. I don’t know how I got tricked into it frankly.

The perpetrator of all this criminal exploitation is a book distributor. And I know what you’re thinking. “Books? Let’s see. There’s The Bible, Batman, Archie and Veronica, and Penthouse ... Ptthbt! How hard could that be?” Well it turns out there’s books on everything from computers to babies to photography to history, all stacked on pallets as far as the eye can see. Jesus Christ, there’s like a hundred of them!

Steinbeck, Camus, Hemingway ...

... Man you people read a lot of schlock.

Larger than Life

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"What the hell is wrong with you?" demands my new boss, slamming the office door. "The whole damn building is complaining that you keep calling and paging."

"I'm having a little trouble dialing," I says.

"Well, get off your ass and go tell Maintenance to fix your phone!"

"I'm having trouble with the doorknob too," I says.

"Why are you sitting like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're hiding your hands."

Resigned, I sigh and set my hands on my desk. As I open them slowly, he gasps.

"Jesus Christ!" he says. "What happened?"

"Well, you know that new, eh, 'male enhancement' cream we sell?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it turns out it works."

"It made your hands freakishly large?"

"Well I hadda apply it somehow."

Spinning my phone around to face him, he presses the front desk button.

"Natalie?"

"Yes sir" she replies.

"Can you send Nurse Garrison to LOBO's office?"

"Um, she stammers. "Actually sir, that might be a bit of a problem. I'm having a little trouble dialing phones this morning."

"Natalie, why in the world would you use that cream?"

[muffled, soft sobs]

"No girl wants to be an A-cup forever sir."

Deadline

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If you sit in the emergency room long enough, gravity sort of takes over. Your shoulders roll forward and your chest caves in, and you just stare at the creepy patterns in the linoleum.

But this is both tedious and expensive, so I busy myself inspecting the room. There's is an ominous drop of dried blood on the floor near the corner. This must be the room where they do the squirty Freddy Krueger stuff ...

“Have you notified the respiratory specialist?” I ask, pointing to the checklist on the wall.

The orderly sighs. “That list is for gunshot wounds. Now would you please lay down?”

“Huh,” I says. “So a lot of people have died in this bed?”

“Not recently,” he replies without conviction. “Are you here by yourself?”

This is hospital-speak for, ’Are you driving? We can’t give you painkillers if you are driving ...’

“My wife is in the waiting room,” I says in a well-practiced lie ... Terri is a very busy person.

An exasperated nurse pulls the curtain back, and I’m immediately embarrassed by my backless hospital gown.

“Sir your wife is on the phone,” she explains.

I don’t do chagrin.

“Why would she call me from the waiting room?” I bluff. “There must be some mistake.”

“No, it's her,” says the nurse. “I recognize you from the orientation videos.”

Shit.

The Misery Machine

-Rorschach

Predator Press

In a bathrobe and slippers, she rubbed her temples. Little House on the Prairie still seemed blaringly loud, and once again she thought of looking for the remote control for the television.

-And once again, the thought was drowned out in the thick fog of her fever.

A nasty cold would be bad enough. But if this was her dreaded shellfish allergy too, she was going to be here for several more days waiting for the swelling to subside regardless. An accidental glance in the mirror earlier certainly seemed to make this case, and reduced her to tears; she looked bug-eyed and simultaneously pasty and pink. Her hands, bloated and almost useless, felt like overly-large mitts with no tactile sense whatsoever. So when the phone rang, despite being within her immediate grasp, she was almost unable to answer until the fourth ring -a fraction of a second more, and it would have gone to voicemail.

“Hello?” she snuffled. Somewhat rattled back to reality, she began collecting the numerous scattered crumpled tissues surrounding her into an organized pile.

“Doctor Alex Smith?”

She puzzled at the somewhat familiar voice.

“Yes.”

“The Doctor Smith that graduated from Stanford in 2004 with a doctorate in psychology? And currently works at Bertram Asylum?”

She paused. Something in the furthest reaches of her mind was sounding an alarm, but the efficacy was lost in the wake of muddled malaise.

“Yes,” she replied, almost on autopilot. A sense of dread seemed to fill her almost instantly.

“Hi!” said the enthusiastic voice over the phone. “It‘s LOBO.”

“Lobo-”

“LOBO,” the disembodied voice corrects.

“LOBO, how did you get this number?”

“I‘m sorry but it‘s very important. I got your number off of your Facebook profile.”

Doctor Smith bit at the inside of her lip, but her teeth could get no purchase against the smooth, swollen surface. “I haven’t had a Facebook profile in years,” she denied flatly.

“I‘m looking right at it,” countered LOBO. “Your last update was in 2001. You were complaining about being overwhelmed with schoolwork.”

“How did you find it? There must be thousands of ‘Alex Smiths’ on Facebook.”

“There‘s 409,204,” LOBO points out with some pride. “But remember roughly half of those are males. After that, about a third are black. With some deduction I got it down to around 60,000-”

“You said it was an emergency.”

“I said it was important,” LOBO clarifies.

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you would give me a blurb for my book jacket. A doctor would give me some cred.”

Her head throbbed. “But I’m your therapist.”

“Well you‘re still a doctor, right? I don‘t think it matters.”

Doubling over forward in cramp, phone still absently pressed to her ear, Doctor Smith’s eyes slowly came to focus on what she soon realized was the television remote control: it was half-hidden under her chair on the floor, obviously knocked there by her gargantuan, bloated feet. Fumbling, she clicked the ’Off’ button for the television and somehow sank even further into the easy chair, lost in swirling thought. Where did, despite her typically vigilant precautions, she ingest shellfish? A carelessly washed dish at a restaurant?

“Hello?”

“Uh,” she began, sort of rebooting the conversation. Insightfully she decided not to discourage LOBO’s new project. What harm could he do hammering away at a book for a few years?

“What’s the book about?” she croaked.

“It‘s an exposé on the sordid, secret life of Paul Revere.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Remember recently how Sarah Palin made those weird remarks about Revere at the Old North Church?”

“No.”

“I‘ve got the quote right here,” LOBO explains, audibly shuffling through some papers. “And I quote: ‘He ... warned the British that they weren’t going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and making sure -as he’s riding his horse through town- to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free ...’”

“Yeah, okay. I remember now.”

“Well on the face it sounded like nonsense and babble. But then I got to thinking maybe, as a Governor, she is privy to information we aren‘t. Like maybe there was more to this story than anyone was letting on to the, you know, the plebs.”

“The plebs?”

“Yeah. The, eh, plebeians. You know, you people. What I found out was nothing short of stunning.”

“About Paul Revere.”

“Yes. See most people don't know lighthouse duty was a punishment, and Paul Revere wasn't supposed to be on it that night. Julio -the married owner of an underpants factory- got it for giving his wife the crabs he caught while fornicating with a high-maintenance coke whore named Romiette. And witchcraft.”

“Uh huh,” Doctor Smith snuffled absently.

“But one night during a drill, Julio accidentally lit three lanterns and freaked everyone out -three either meant land and sea, or British invasion by means of a quasi-dimensional wormhole. Long story short, Julio made a fortune selling underpants the next morning. So he got a good lawyer, and bought so much cocaine that he, Romiette, and the crabs lived happily ever after.”

Wondering if she had any Tylenol, out of simple polite reflex Doctor Smith found herself saying the exact opposite of what she was thinking.

“Go on.”

“Next in line for lighthouse duty was Paul Revere, who was booked on a public urination charge. Revere -with little else to do in the lighthouse- would go on to make history despite wishing to Christ he was Julio instead: he invented a much-needed exotic line of chamber pots the lighthouse guards could hose out and sell for contraband, with the intention of seducing a coke whore of his own.”

“I see.”

“But Revere was freakishly hideous -so ugly, even when masturbating he had to fake orgasms. No matter how much coke he could get, the coke whores would have nothing to do with him -and the mere handful of skanky meth freaks he acquired only fueled his jealousy and stole his Brillo pads. Worse, the enterprising guards had invested all the venture capital from his chamber pots, quit their jobs, and became overnight millionaires by founding a toilet company that endures to this day. And once every year, they thoughtfully sent Revere and the new lighthouse guards a thank you note, accompanied by a thick stack of pictures of their coke whores in bikinis posing over foreign cars and lounging on tropical beaches. This biography explores Revere's deep, irrational hatred for people that had essentially done nothing to him at all. I call it ‘Romiette and Julio.’”

“And I suppose you already have a publisher?” Doctor Smith asked facetiously.

“Jack Jones," said LOBO, perceptibly smug.

“The Jack Jones?” The doctor was floored. “Jack Jones of Vanguard Publishing? ”

“Yep.”

Incredulous. “You know Jack Jones.”

“Well I will if he's on Facebook.”

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.