Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan came into the office quietly and shut the door behind him; I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.
He flips a thick folder onto my desk, sits down, and just stares at me expectantly.
"What?" I says, perplexed. I look at the file. "I read one of those once. I thought it was wordy and pedantic. I'm into
Louis L'Amour now.”
“Who,” says Ethan finally, “is Frank Gilmore?”
“He’s the
VP-ATL of Hawly Enterprises.”
“And what exactly is a
‘VP-ATL’?”
“Vice President of All Things LOBO.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly make him
President,” I says, leaning back in my chair. “That’s way too much responsibility. But he’s an invaluable asset to your organization, I assure you. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Yes,” says Ethan. “I would.”
I grab my phone, hit ‘speed dial’, then the number one.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in, Mr Gilmore.” I says.
Mr Gilmore enters, and just then his cell phone rang. With a deft maneuver into his jacket, the ringing stops. “Yes sir?” he says, all dignified.
I look at Ethan. “I just
love how he does that.”
“It’s good to see you again sir,” says Gilmore. “Have you lost weight? I never thought a ladykiller such as yourself could get actually
more devastating in only two hours.”
“He’s a fuckin’
genius,” I whisper to Ethan. “He can translate too.”
“Really?” says Ethan.
“Yeah! Watch.” I turn to Gilmore. “Gilmore, say, um, ‘roadkill’.”
“Roadkill.”
“Okay, now say it in
‘South of I-80’.”
“Road pizza.”
I look to Ethan, nodding my amazement. “Now say it in
Arkansazian.”
“Not fast
enough food,” says Gilmore.
“Is that true?” I says, scowling incredulously. “People from other countries are actually
eating roadkill?”
“Yes sir,” replies Gilmore. “But I’m sure your vast intellect is superior to being preoccupied with historic and factual minutia like that,” he says flatly. “That’s what I’m here for sir. That, and to forcibly remove the women that get too sexually aggressive after being exposed to you for more than a few moments at a time.”
“Remember Gilmore, I don’t want them hurt,” I says.
“I know sir. It’s not their fault.”
Ethan flips open the file on my desk, and leafs down a couple of pages.
“$6 an hour, eh?” he asks.
“Actually, $6.10,” I reply. “I gave him a raise last year.”
Ethan scratches his neck. “Does he have any friends who need a job?”
Predator Press
