Predator Press
[LOBO]
Poor
.45!
-I've botched the entire mission to save his soul.
It all started so innocently; all I had to do was help Paul bury those heavy plastic bags in his trunk out in the desert.
Paul and I were in dire need of one of my little-known 'gifts' at this point: digging all those big deep holes was going to require a lot of people capable of 'physical labor', and all those protests and sit-ins I mounted on numerous college administration buildings in the past made me very skilled at the process of organizing people for a common cause. Even without any money, I knew some folk in these small rural towns are just plain
helpful ... and sure enough in no time at all, a handful of friendly local police were eager to pitch in.
But just as soon as I rounded the corner with those big, strappin' ditch-diggin lawmen, Paul peeled out of the station.
I was
left behind.
:(
***
"What am I gonna
do?" I asked the truck stop cashier.
"I dunno buddy," says the guy in the cowboy hat. "But you should know that Utah County is like 90% Mormon."
"I hardly think that's true," I says. "They appear to be a fairly advanced civilization."
"I said
Mormon," he corrects. "It's a religion."
"Know anything about them?"
"I
am one," he smiles. Offering his hand he says, "My name's Peter."
"Why does everyone have, like, the same 12 first names?"
"That's nothing. We only got like four
last names."
"So I take it 'Mormonism' is a hip and trendy religion?"
"No."
"Rats," I says. "Well you've been very helpful."
I didn't have any money. All I had was my suitcase full of issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease
.45's transition into Salvation.
"Here buddy," I says. "Thanks for the advice."
Peter goes pale.
"Mister, we ain't got no place fer yer smut," he says, rolling up the issue and jamming it in his back pocket. "If you got any more of those," he adds, "I highly advise you to hand them over to me right now so's that I might dispose of them."
A bead of sweat forms on Peter's forehead.
Hmmm
"Okay," I says. "If you give me all this entire display of
'I love Utah County' keychains."
"Well, I can't just-"
"And," I add, looking around. "This canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid."
"Mister, we're talkin' about your
soul-"
"
And," I add. "This here entire plastic tube of beef jerky!"
"Fer the whole suitcase?"
"For two more issues."
"Deal!"
***
Six issues later, I had a nice car and a posh motel room.
It was only when I lay back on the giant waterbed and clicked the remote control for the widescreen television when I found out Salt Lake City had declared a '
State of Emergency': according to the mayor, there was a huge, inexplicable religious defection taking place, and the entire state was converting to Jehovah's Witnesses.
A town meeting was called at the church.
And as a concerned citizen, I felt obliged to attend.
Peter arrived at the same time I did.
"Peter!" I cried. "What has happened to our beloved community?"
He stops me at the door. "I don't know LOBO. But you can't come in the temple."
"Why?" I demand. "Have not hours and hours of blood, sweat and equally Mormonesqe
tears proven me worthy to-"
"Sorry LOBO," he says shutting the ornate doors. "Non-Mormons may not enter."
SLAM
"Oh no you
didn't!" I start to circle the building, and yell at the stained glass. "I
know you guys are crackin' wise about my momma in there!"
But nothing I did provoked a response.
I had been unjustly, and without due process, been Excommunicated from my Faith.
***
With a chain I fashioned out of 560
'I love Utah County' keychains, I scaled that church.
"You ain't getting' away with this!" I swore, swinging my suitcase onto the roof.
Now, I don't know much about Mormon engineering and architecture, but that damned suitcase blew through that church roof life it wasn't even
there. And tryin' to grope after it, I lost my balance and fell in right behind it.
The suitcase landed first, and burst wide. This was lucky, as about 1,650 meticulously doctored issues of
The Watchtower cushioned my fall.
Landing squarely in front of the preacher, he squinted through the cloud of fluttering pornography and profanity.
"And I see," he said simply into the microphone. "That LOBO has chosen to
join us today."
Then the canister of portable Zippo lighter fluid detonated.
"Witch!" screamed Peter.
"Peter, you're a damned liar and hypocrite!" I protested.
And suddenly, 1/12 of the congregation pounced.
A rose -by any other name- might
grow precariously on the Edge of Sanity.
Predator Press
