Showing posts with label the butterbean kid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the butterbean kid. Show all posts

Tuesday

The Nature Versus the Nurtured

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”

Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”

“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”

“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”

“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”

Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.

"Maybe fifteen?"

"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."

“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.

“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”

“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”

“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”

“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”

See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”

“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”

“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”

Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"

"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.

"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."

Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"

"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.

"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"

"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."

"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"

"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."

"You can do that?"

"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."

"Spelling?"

"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."

"So you can get in trouble for it?"

"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."

"I don't think it's a good idea then."

"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."

"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"

"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"

“These say ‘Made in China.’”

“Yeah. Ming, China probably."

"There is no such place as Ming, China."

"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”

“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”

“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."

“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"

“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”

“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”

“Websites?”

“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”

“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”

“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”

“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”

“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”

Butterbean stares.

“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”

“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"

"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"

"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"

"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."

Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."

"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."

"Go on."

"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."

"I'm not following you."

"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."

Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'

"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."

"But what does this have to do with sex?"

"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."

"Okay."

"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."

"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"

“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."

Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.

“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”

“Then where did I come from?”

“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”

“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”

“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”

“So the pandas are immune to babies?”

“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”

Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”

“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”

Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.

“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?

“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"

WHAM!

It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.

See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)

Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.

-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.

“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."

Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"

I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"

"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”

Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.

"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.

"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.

"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"

Saturday

Predator Press Interviews: James Carville

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Federation or Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.

“Excuse me?” asks a muffled voice from outside.

Sensing the kid’s alarm, I approach. “Who is it?”

“You gotta see this,” he replies, face pressed against the door. “It’s either Jean-Luc Pickard or Locutus.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What the hell is he selling?”

The kid steps down and moves the chair. “I don’t know yet.”

I open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” says the well-dressed man. “My name is James Carville.”

Butterbean and I stare.

“The lead strategist for the Clinton presidential campaign?” he adds helpfully.

I scowl. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nobody here named ‘Clinton.’ And do you have any idea what time it is?”

He looks at his watch. “10:30 in the morning?”

“I better get some free ice cream for dragging me out of bed like this,” I says.

He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”

“No Fudgie the Whale, no dice,” I insist. “Besides, you should probably know I’m a registered republican, populist, libertarian, and anarchist too. I like being on the winning team.”

Butterbean whistles. “You can screw everything up and get 18 billion in bonuses?” He looks at me. “You’re in the wrong business.”

“Shut up,” I says.

“Look,” says Carville. “We’re on the precipice of major change. A few years ago, America elected it’s first African-American president, and-“

“We have a black president?” I says. “Is it Tupoc?”

There’s and uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Carville says finally.

“Can you teach me the Vulcan Nerve Pinch?” asks Butterbean.

“You’re thinking of Leonard Nimoy,” replies Carville.

“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”

“Uh-huh,” Butterbean agrees. “Plus he would’ve stayed out of those tanning beds.”

“Seriously!” I says. “Carville you look fifty years older since The Lord of the Rings. You know there’s spray-on stuff now that doesn’t turn your skin into melted leather.”

“Will you shoot an arrow off of my head?” asks Butterbean.

“No I will not shoot an arrow off of your head,” replies Carville. “You’re thinking of Orlando Bloom.”

“Yeah dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”

“That’s Sinead O'Connor,” corrects Carville.

“Pulp Fiction?” I offer.

“Bruce Willis,” says Carville.

"The Transporter?" asks Butterbean.

"Grant Latham," replies Carville.

"Triple 'X'?" I venture.

"That's Vin Diesel," says Carville. “Are you guys just going to bark out a bunch of random bald celebrities now in an effort to figure out who I am rather than discussing government policy?”

“Probably," I says. "Why?"

Monday

Independence Day

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The only problem I have with an “official” holiday is that everyone else is on one too.

When I take a sick day for instance, the world carries on as normal: television is on regular scheduling, stores are open, et cetera. But on an “official” holiday such as Independence Day, well, virtually anything I might have done is on holiday as well.

-And if you lazy bastards don't get back to work pronto, my head is going to explode.

“Honey,” says Terri, knocking softly at the door.

Sitting in a bath of deep bubbles, my copy of The Best of Philip K. Dick tented on my forehead, I’m pondering the story I just finished darkly. Dick, a favorite author, took an unexpected detour in his story Faith of our Fathers; for this he seemed to channel another favorite author of mine, H. P. Lovecraft. And I was wholly unprepared for the exceptionally-

Another knock. Louder.

-bleak moral. But a lot of PKD’s stuff is edgy, provocative and foreboding: he wrote Minority Report, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and We Can Remember it for You Wholesale after all (although Hollywood would take liberties with them; most people know the last two as Blade Runner and Total Recall respectively.)

Terri tries the locked door. “Honey are you okay?”

PKD’s impact on Hollywood doesn’t rest there, either. I could make a case that the whole Terminator series is a spinoff of his short Second Variety-

Another knock.

“Yeah,” I says reluctantly.

“Honey I need a favor,” says Terri through the door. “Will you watch Jessica while I give Maude a ride to get some formula?”

Scowling, I remove the paperback from my head and set it on the edge of the tub. “I‘m very busy,” I reply.

“You won‘t have to do anything,” says another voice. Male.

The Butterbean kid.

-To get you up to speed, Maude is Butterbean’s mom, and Jessica is Maude’s newborn baby girl.

I grab a towel. "I don’t do diapers ‘an crap. It’s a strict policy I learned from Hillary Clinton. 'No Child’s Behind Left'"

“That’s 'No Child Left Behind,'“ Terri corrects.

“Even better,” I agree.

The rather debilitating sulk that Faith of our Fathers inspired didn’t drag me down alone. Neverlution, a heady and potent stand up routine by one of my favorite stand-up comics Christopher Titus debuted yesterday, and it seemed to round up all my demons into a nice little package: he covered everything from major depression -one of my many diagnoses- to the state of our mighty-yet-currently staggering beloved nation. Did we lose our Mandate of Heaven? Or was it always myth, like Bigfoot and the female orgasm?

I think I tried to be depressed for the country instead somehow, and it just made things worse.

-Nothing to buoy to, I suppose.

“We’ll only be ten minutes or so,” Terri adds. “I just want an adult here. I couldn’t find one, but you’re the next best thing.”

Ha ha.

“I’ll take care of everything,” Butterbean repeats.

Still toweling off, I contemplate this soberly. “You’ll take care of everything, eh?”

“Yeah,” he replies with the surfeit of confidence only found in adolescents.

“You'll have to prove your competence then," I says through the still-closed door bathroom door. "You can have any four guests for dinner. Who do you invite?”

Butterbean pauses behind the door. "Uh-"

"Quickly!" I demand.

Then suddenly he blurts, “Ben Franklin, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Edison, and ... Socrates.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong,” I says, pulling on my boxers. “Jesus who could eat with all those dead people? The place would stink to high heaven. The correct answer is Adam Carolla, Drew Pinsky, David Allen Grier, and Justin Bieber.”

Duh, I thought, drying my hair some more in the mirror.

For the first time in my life I’m forced to admit I look like shit; I don’t think I’ve never been in this much cumulative physical and psychological disrepair. Perhaps worse, even the frail forty-minute sleep increments I manage -among the most painful experiences of all- are further complicated by a nasty bout of hay fever.

Still, the back surgery went really well and physical therapy starts tomorrow. The broken wrist is marginally usable already. The ankle, however, complicated by two breaks, not so much -the jury is still out on a possible additional surgery.

I do intend to blog all this here soon. Probably at the end of this month, as it will coincide with an important announcement.

But I need a nice tall pale beer first. And maybe a plate of pork chops.

-Or a good steak.

“So will you do it?” asks Terri.

In the mirror, checking for acne, I spot a small red spot on my cheekbone. I zero in. I think it’s acne.

“Do what?”

Holy crap … I hope it’s not melanoma.


Note: That mirror pic is from a great site I tripped on called Funny World, and the gallery is here.

-But shh! Don‘t tell them I stole it!


Wednesday

The Butterbean Kid is Dead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Butterbean scoffs incredulously over my shoulder.

“You can’t really write that if it isn’t true.”

Exasperated, I stop writing.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me while I’m filling out insurance papers?”

"Sorry," says Butterbean, looking away. “I just thought it might be, I dunno, illegal or something.”

Decedent Age: 13

“Yeah, well,” I says. "It's only one of the many sacrifices I make for the millions and millions of Predator Press readers."

Cause of Death:

I pause to look at him for a second, then return to my keyboard.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation

Butterbean, visibly wounded, seems to deflate somewhat.

“My mother says I’m big-boned” he offers. Showing me his fleshy, flaccid bicep with the water-soluble tattoos we got in Switzerland, he continues. “Some girls like guys with some 'meat' on them.”

-And I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was all those hot, big-haired 80’s chicks I failed to woo with my ‘64 Dodge Dart replete with imitation vinyl interior, pine tree air freshener, and AM radio.

But I felt sorry for him.

Cause of Death: Morbid Twinkie Saturation Complications of Menopause

“What’s ‘Menopause’?” asks Butterbean.

“It’s a really high level of World of Warcraft.”

“Cool,” he says. “I gotta go home and tell my parents I‘m still alive. And I get in trouble if I’m late for dinner.”

I strip the receipt tape from the 10-key.

“Well if you must,” I says, scowling at the tiny scroll. “But try not to be conspicuous.”

Friday

Dangling the God Participle

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“But it’s two in the morning,” says the Butterbean kid. “Besides, the CERN Hadron Colider is closed to the public.”

“I am not ‘The Public,’” I says, lowering the rope. “I‘ve had a personal black hole on backorder since 2008. I‘m a prospective buyer.”

Butterbean gives the rope a tug forlornly. “Why do I have to carry all the luggage?”

“It was a condition of getting through Customs” I explain down to him in excruciating, hushed tones. “When they asked you the nature of your visit, I told them it was to carry my luggage.”

“What was the nature of your visit?”

“To tell you where to put my luggage. Now be careful. That Fabergé egg was very expensive.”

“I still think it’s a painted Wiffle ball.”

“Why would that guy charge me so much for a painted Wiffle ball? Painted Wiffle balls are comparably worthless.”

“Why don’t you just come down and unlock the door?”

I sigh.

This fucking kid is the laziest Administrative Assistant I’ve ever had.

“Oh, all right” I says. “You probably would have banged up my television anyway.”

Bounding down the two flights of stairs, I make it a point to turn on the lights as I go ... all the way, keeping a sharp lookout for the Swiss equivalent of a shipping department: if my black hole is already there, I figure I’ll save myself a few bucks by circumventing the whole UPS thing.

The back door latch cracks loudly with the sound of well-imbedded steel, and I swing the heavy door wide.

“Thanks” says Butterbean, collecting my luggage.

"I shoulda made you climb that rope for your own good" I says, pointing to his considerable belly. “A little exercise wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

“Yuh,“ he grunts, heaving my luggage through the door.

Once inside, he looks around.

“There's nobody here.”

“I can’t believe I’ve flown all the way to Switzerland,” I agree glumly, “and these lazy scientists are off screwing around when they should be working on my black hole! I’m going to send them an angry email.” Turning on a nearby computer terminal, I am immediately greeted by a screen requesting a password.

“Damn!” I says. Thinking quickly, I type ‘CERN.’

The screen says ‘Password Fail.’

Meditating on this solemnly for a moment, I try again.

‘NREC.’

Suddenly, the complex in buzzing

-Buzzing with the steady throb of science.

Butterbean is incredulous. "The password was 'CERN' spelled backwards?"

"Yep," I guffaw. "I told you scientists are dumb."

And as the computer screen blinks to life, it reads the line ‘Activate Supercolider?'

“Where the hell is the email in this thing?” I says irritated into the computer screen. “No shipping records, no porn ... just tons of physics crap and Elf Bowling.” Frustrated, I click ‘Activate,’ and the room seems to shrink with the whine of turbines.

“Cool,” breathes Butterbean. Spotting an addled dry erase board on the wall, he squints to read the nigh-illegible chart.

“Hey, look at this” he says. “It‘s a project schedule.”

“Jesus Christ,” I complain. “These worthless bastards haven’t even found the Hogus-Bogus Particle yet!”

“Nope.”

“We have to speed things up, or I’m never going to get a personal black hole.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Scratching my chin, I spot a steel huge porthole in the floor -about the size of a small car. "Lefty-loose-y" I mutter under my breath, spinning the lock.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Butterbean.

Blinding alarms and deafening sirens peal.

“Why?” I yell over the clamor.

“You’re opening the chamber of a 17-mile long supercolider” he shouts, a wild wind now blowing through his hair. “It’s just a hunch.”

“These so-called scientists will never get anywhere trying to smash teeny particles,” I explain.

So I started throwing small stuff in at first. Pens, clipboards, files … but that shit just whipped around noisily, missing each other entirely. Butterbean caught on soon enough, and went to the cafeteria and grabbed a handful of odds and ends out of the fridge; he soon returned with a half a Pepsi, some sporks, and tuna fish sandwich labeled 'BOB' in crude red capital letters.

But true science did not occur until pieces of the afore mentioned computer -on their third lap- cracked solidly into the afore mentioned dry erase board.

And there it was: a singularity -the main ingredient for my personal black hole- in all it‘s vacuous splendor.

And as the tuna fish sandwich spiraled in, Blackie -I have decided to call her Blackie- swelled slightly while devouring it.

"Bob is going to be pissed," Butterbean remarks.

“She’s hungry! Keep throwing stuff in!” I cry to Butterbean. “We have to get her to a size where she will stabilize!”

“How big is that?”

“About the size of the fruit basket Tiger Woods sent to Jesse James yesterday.”

Within an hour CERN was devoid of every stick of furniture and file cabinets, and exposed wires hung from holes in the wall.

“Don’t worry Blackie!” I cry down into the void. “I’ll think of something!”

“There’s nothing left except your luggage,” says Butterbean. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Trying vainly to scoop Butterbean in, I struggle against his mighty girth ... but I might as well have been trying to lift the Rock of Gibraltar.

“Damn,” I gasp. “I knew I shoulda made you climb that rope.”

The Viscosity of Toothpaste

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Since none of you cowards volunteered to kill my neighbors, I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.

“Look,” I says to the Butterbean kid. “You can’t go toe-to-toe with them. You’re too short. You need to use your weight against ‘em. Work up some inertia first. You know, hit ‘em like a 30 mile an hour walrus.”

“What if I don’t want to kill the neighbors?”

“Then why did you answer my ad on Monster-dot-com?”

“Because it said you wanted an administrative assistant.”

“Good administrative assistants kill people all the time.”

“Really?”

“Well, 'monster' is right in the name. And you gotta let monsters have some fun. If not, you have to pay them.”

“I’m not sure I want the job, actually.”

“You don’t want your secret identity as the deadly -feared and respected by all- Walrus Man? I think that would be a bad career move personally.”

“Why do you want the neighbors killed?”

“Because they’re evil.”

“How so?”

“They do stuff like mow the lawn while I’m trying to sleep.”

“My Dad mows the lawn here, Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon” says Butterbean. “I thought you meant the neighbors on the other side.”

“I do mean the neighbors on the other side. Killing your parents is merely a way to test your administrative assistant aptitude.” I pause. “How else am I to find out if you have, you know, the Eye of The Walrus?"

"How about if we ask my Dad to mow the lawn at some other time?"

"See this?" I says, showing my shaky hand. "And look how bloodshot my eyes are! I, author of Predator Press, am under enormous pressure. Millions and millions of readers will always be asking me every day, 'LOBO, why aren't your neighbors dead yet?' And if I don't get fifteen hours of completely random sleep a day, I'm likely to do something crazy -like not kill the neighbors. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

“You only have 150 RSS subscribers," he says skeptically. "And most of those are pre-med students looking for a psychiatric practicum."

“What happened to you?” I demand. “Did they get to you already? Fess up Walrus Man ... Despite a valorous career fighting crime, were you seduced by their massive payroll? Was it money? Was it women? Was it women made of money?"

“No.”

I gasp. “They gave you the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates? Walrus Man, you are shrewd.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But I already had it embroidered on your cape!”

Tuesday

Jackson Tweens Caught With Stun Gun, DCFS Conducting Investigation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

According to TMZ -because one of the children had somehow acquired a stun gun- the Department of Children and Family Services is conducting an investigation of the Jackson family.

So what’s the big deal? If I was 13 and lived in the Jackson home, I would want a stun gun too. They got giraffes 'an crap!

Look. I’m a staunch NRA supporter. And when I last checked, our Nation’s children were protected by a little thing called The Constitution. I for one love my stun gun. How else is one expected to deal with unwanted visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses and Census Takers? Kids getting a firearm should be a prerequisite for graduating kindergarten, thus beginning early the long road of preparation for the firefight formerly known as college.

Sure there’ll be a handful of you sanctimonious, whiny liberals, "But LOBO, a gun can be dangerous -especially when used by children!”

Pthbbbt! Where do you people come up with these ideas? And I didn't say give 'em, like, grenades or something: one measly stun gun is great fun for the whole family!

Don‘t believe me? This morning the Butterbean kid got sent over to borrow a cup of sugar, and I‘ve been stunning him ever since. I even recharged it twice. He’s fine. In the process, I even uncovered some false advertising: the box my stun gun came in says explicitly, “Will incapacitate virtually any assailant instantly.” But this little prick keeps twitching!

And this further illustrates my point, doesn‘t it?

If this little bastard had a gun, none of this would have ever happened.

Thursday

Green

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“You’re kidding,” I says.

“Nope,” says the Butterbean kid. “All dead.”

“The Gooch killed all 2457 Gary Coleman clones?”

“It’s right here on CNN.” He flips through some screens. “Oh man some of these pictures are pretty horrifying.”

“It’s settled then,” I says. “The Gooch must die.”

“Is this another weird attempt at getting a book deal?”

“It’s the natural order!” I insist. “You have a great blog, you kill The Gooch, pow, book deal. That’ll teach that Starcasm to stop stealing my ideas.”

Butterbean shrugs. “I have a book deal.”

“You’re a liar,” I says.

“Nope,” the Butterbean kid says. “I got a C minus for my interviews of you, but Random House heard about ‘em somehow and offered me $100,000 for The Unofficial Biography of LOBO.”

“Did you get exclusive rights in case there’s a motion picture?”

“Check.”

“You bastard!

“Terri’s home,” he points to the window.

“Look,” I says. “There’s no need to upset Terri with the news that I’m going to attempt to kill The Gooch.”

“Mum’s the word,” says Butterbean.

“And I know,” I continue, “that we haven’t known each other that long. But in this small span of time I feel that we've grown to be pretty close friends.”

Terri is working the front door lock with her keys.

“This is why I’ve decided I want you to have these,” I say ceremoniously.

Wow!” says Butterbean. “The protective goggles you wear to eat M&Ms?”

“Take good care of ‘em kid,” I says. “There’s a good chance I won’t be needing them anymore.”

“But don’t you want to give these to your own kids?”

“Nah. I want ‘em to go to somebody I actually like.”

Terri throws open the front door.

“Honey,” she cries breathlessly, tossing her keys on the table. “I have the best news. I got a book deal!


Tuesday

Soak

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Vitalized by our harrowing near-death experience meeting James Carville, the Butterbean kid and I ate ice cream and discussed the possible cosmic ramifications.

“At least this isn’t some weird yogurt,” he says.

My eyebrows furrow as I study the globe. “I still can’t find where he claims he was born.”

“It’s Fort Benning, Georgia,” Butterbean offers. “It would be right over Florida.”

“Well that’s exactly where my thumb is,” I protest. “I’m not buying it.”

Lapping up the last of Fudgie the Whale, we consider this in relative silence.

Butterbean eventually pipes up, rubbing a paper towel against the sticky shirt covering his flabbing pectorals. “So what if aliens have taken over our minds and have made us join the democratic party?” He sits at his parfait. “Now all the Gary Coleman clones are ours.”

Warily, I climb down from the table. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," says Butterbean. "Thanks to Mister Drummond and his daughters, your ankles are now completely safe from Sickle Cell Anemia."

“A sister,” I says mystically. “NBC was wise to hide her from me.”


Saturday

The Skittish Invasion

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Butterbean kid and I step out of the courthouse, and into the cold and harsh-seeming sunlight.

He looks up from his notepad. “So you do this every day?”

“No,” I says. Squinting as my eyes adjust, I hold the paperwork over my eyes. “The only have these hearings once a week.”

As we descend the stairs, I spot the Unfinished Rambler getting into his car.

“Hey!” I yell complaining. “It’s only for 100 feet!”

“I know,” calls Unfinished Rambler. “It’s a typo. I’ll get the lawyers to correct it to 100 yards as soon as they can.”

As he drives off I give him an informal salute, and me and Butterbean head down for my own car.

Butterbean is leafing through his notes. “So your plan is,” he restates, “to get everyone to take out a temporary restraining order on you so they have to move, therefore enabling you to keep the whole city for yourself?”

I unlock the back door. Pausing for a second, I kiss the document for effect. “These things are like gold.” As I toss it in the car, Butterbean now realizes there are thousands of TROs piled back there.

He scowls thoughtfully. “But if they are taking out restraining orders on you, wouldn’t that mean you have to move?”

I look at him, and then the documents.

And then back at him.

“Of course not!” I says climbing into the driver’s seat. “Look. You’re just a dumb kid. These legislative matters are very complex.”

"You told the judge her hair looks like three cats fighting."

"Chicks dig compliments," I says starting the car. "And it was far and away the coolest hair I've ever seen."

He swings the seatbelt around his rather impressive girth. “Where are we going now?”

I turn to size up the mountains of paperwork.

“Someplace to get a lot of Liquid Paper.”


Tuesday

Retox

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The kid –who looks a little like a pint-sized Butterbean- just kind of slips into the kitchen as I’m pouring milk into my bowl. The food, inspected under a black light only moments before, is presumed safe for my consumption.

But I’m still pretty groggy and not 100% I’m not dreaming the kid up: I decide to say nothing and try and ignore him in case.

-The possible illusion is shattered moments later as he loudly slides into a chair at the table.

“Hi,” he says shyly, averting my gaze.

“Hi,” I reply, chewing.

A few uncomfortable moments of silence follow.

“Is that cereal?”

“No,” says me, eyeing him warily. “It’s Peanut M&Ms.”

“Huh,” he says. "Do you always wear welding goggles at breakfast?"

"Son, you ever get hard candy shell in your eye?"

"No."

"Well then don't knock good protective gear. This isn’t some bullshit caramel nugat: this stuff is engineered to melt in your mouth. Not in your eye."

More silence. He starts uncomfortably looking around the kitchen. “Miss Terri said I could come in and talk to you.”

“Are you done?”

“No. See I have this school project where I have to interview people of different occupations.” He flips open a notepad. “I have you here as an ‘Author.’ Is that correct?”

I examine his beady little eyes for signs of sarcasm.

“You want to interview me?” I ask.

“Well my dad thought it was a good idea. Since you don’t actually have a job, he figured he wouldn’t have to drive me anyplace.”

I drop my spoon into the bowl -now empty except for discolored milk- and lean back in my chair. “Who is your dad again?”

“We live next door.”

I scowl without recognition.

“You killed my gramma with a Lawn Jart last summer,” he adds helpfully.

My eyebrows furrow. I gesture for him to stand and turn around. And sure enough, there’s that distinctive blocky skull shape.

“Oh yeah,” I says. “Man, your mom was pissed."