Sunday

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Millions and millions of people are always asking me every day, “LOBO, with that chiseled physique, isn’t it your patriotic duty to compete for LOBOnia in the Olympics?”

-For those of you new to Predator Press, LOBOnia is a sovereign nation whose citizens occupy a mobile 10-foot US breakaway province that surrounds me at all times.

And while we are generally a very laid back people, those other countries can be total assholes: economic relations tend to be sound and mutually beneficial, but diplomatic relations are often strained nonetheless ... nothing good could come from me demonstrating their physical inferiority and lack of athletic prowess right smack on television. Giving the Russians or the Americans another reason to bomb us in a fit of humiliated jealousy just seems dumb.

Plus, remember when I announced I was going to compete in last year’s Olympics? Those pansies didn‘t even show up.

... I bought all those steroids and a Nordic Track for nothing.

Wednesday

Movers and Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Way, way back in this blog, I mentioned managing an orphanage.

-As a successful entrepreneur, I feel it's important to give back to the community.

Well I’m proud to announce that according to StreetWise Magazine, my orphanage was far and away the most profitable in 2009. Nationwide!

The children hosted an awards dinner I was expected to attend, but I declined the invitation. (Remember, I do the budget for that place ... I’m not eating that crap.) I figured a more suitable reward for my accomplishments would be a ceremony held at the Hilton Brazil -an infinitely classier place, so far from the scrubby little bastards they couldn't dream of attending. They smell funny.

-And they would have been bored anyway. I’ll send them some pictures. They’ll be thrilled.

Unfortunately orphans don’t know shit about music, and any consideration to upgrading their food to real gruel instead of the imitation stuff was immediately forgotten when I heard the samba band they hired: the dense crowd of aristocrats and I were assaulted with the stabbing sound of a maraca player either drunk, a rhythmless incompetent idiot, or both.

Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastard’s throat. "You butcher!" I scream. "You talentless hack! You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"

While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the offender; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"

As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.

I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case. They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.

... And halfway through 'Copa Cabana,’ members of the audience were weeping.

Monday

Depeche Mowed

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Turn left. Turn left. Turn right. Turn right …”

It may not be the biggest and best lawn mower on the block.

“… Turn left … “

-but it’s the only one with OnStar.

Sunday

Predator Press Interviews: Mark A. Rayner

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My devious plot to kill all the good authors so I can get a book deal has suffered a temporary setback: Mark A. Rayner, author of Marvellous Hairy, has been anything but forthright in regards to his actual location.

-Mislead by some rather sophisticated and formidable call-tracing countermeasures, I'm forced to conduct this interview from a payphone in Wyoming.

And let me tell you pal, getting into a phone booth in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is no picnic.




LOBO: Mark, you've obviously chosen to try and make monkeys, you know, cool again -like back when "BJ and the Bear" inspired millions and millions of truckers to take them cross-country. But iguanas are cool, and kinda scary too. A book about superintelligent iguanas would be groundbreaking, and a rare victory for cold-blooded animals. Why monkeys? An iguana is an infinitely more practical pet for truckers if you think about it.

MAR: Actually, Marvellous Hairy is about a surrealistic novelist being turned into a monkey-like creature; they regress just some of his DNA back along the evolutionary tree to the point before we split from the chimps; but if you must know the truth, it's because I think we don't keep in touch with our monkey playfulness enough. (Present company excluded. I mean, obviously, with the ghillie suit and all. You know you can get those in Gor-Tex now, with collapsible almond branches?)

LOBO: Don't correct me on my own blog, Mark. What was that fancy thing you just did there?

MAR: What?

LOBO: That thing where you are using the "(" and the ")".

MAR: They are called parentheses. You -of all people- should probably learn how to use them.

LOBO: You think I don't know about parentheses? I once killed a man using parentheses.

MAR: Really?

LOBO: Absolutely. I hated that guy. Watch. "I want the garbage taken out (and everybody dead in five minutes)."

MAR: In five minutes? What did they do?

LOBO: They didn't know about your book!

MAR: Oh, well that's okay then.

LOBO: Is it that you're an atheist Mark? Hm? I mean you could have changed the guy into a praying mantis instead of a monkey. Is it a problem that the mantis thing is always praying? A praying mantis won't rip off your genitalia and throw it at you. I mean you just don't GET more pious than a praying mantis.

MAR: What about Capuchin Monkeys? Eh? They're named after monks. Or the sanctimonious Kneeling Baboons of Rogistan? (Not that I like them very much. Did you know I was once bitten by a radioactive baboon? It's how I got my super-powers.)

LOBO: See, there you go with the parent-things again.

MAR: Parentheses?

LOBO: Forget it. Was the Shute character in Marvellous Hairy based on David Letterman?

MAR: Largely, though I wouldn't want anyone to think that Denny the Lickspittle is based on Paul Shaeffer. No way. I would never disrespect the coolest man on TV. Paul is Canadian, did you know that? Oh, that's right, you don't believe in Canada.

Marvellous Hairy Excerpts

LOBO: Don't get me started on those old hokey legends of Canada. Do you think Canada exists?

MAR: Yes.

LOBO: But you're a teacher! Isn't that, well, kinda irresponsible?

MAR: Let' get back to the books.

LOBO: [exasperated sigh] One of my favorite elements of your writing is the meat of the stories hangs on a skeleton of philosophical poignence. Not to oversimplify, The Amadeus Net had the omnipotent and omniscient computer managing an idyllic utopia, and Marvellous Hairy had the specter of corporate power and greed gone to extreme. A common thread -humans struggling to morally catch up to their own rampant technological achievements- can often be spotted in your shorter works as published on The Skwib as well. Is this formulaic, or a happy byproduct of your writing style?

MAR: I wish I had a formula -- it would be so much easier. But to think that I struggle with each story, agonize over every character, groin myself every day to get the themes to flow with the plot and have it appear as formulaic . . . well, that just makes me want to slit my wrists. So, let's go with 'happy' byproduct.

LOBO: Having read both The Amadeus Net and Marvellous Hairy, they both have a vastly different "feel" from one another: The Amadeus Net seemed darkly serious while Marvellous Hairy seemed more playful. The fun you were having writing Marvellous Hairy was palpable. Would that be an accurate characterization? And if so, were there events between 2005 and 2008 that contributed to this shift?

MAR: Yes. That's quite accurate. Interestingly, you have to push the clock back about nine years for The Amadeus Net and seven years for Marvellous Hairy. I was primarily writing The Amadeus Net when I was an underemployed corporate drone in 1997, living in a small, yet charmingly feculent apartment, and working from notes that I had painted with a child's watercolour set the year I was being a Bohemian Gen-xer in Prague (1993). The first draft of Marvellous Hairy was written in three days in 2001, and was fueled almost entirely by scotch and raw existential anguish, and so, is hilarious.

Marvellous Hairy Podcasts

LOBO: The Amadeus Net juxtaposes a sexually-taut cast of characters in a clinical, computerized world. Cripes ... everybody is sleeping with everybody! Can you just leave out the computers next time? The computers create too much space between the sex scenes.

MAR: In my next book, the computers get in on it too.

LOBO: Have you repented to your clergy for all the sex in The Amadeus Net yet? I tried to get my penance reduced by ratting you out about it, but the church was skeptical: rather than take my word for it, they ordered a case of the books to be distributed among the congregation for review. Now they are all blind, and their palms smell like Gillette. All of this could have been avoided with the simple use of a praying mantis. Are you an atheist Mark?

MAR: If you mean, do I believe in a "Magic Sky Father", then yes. If you mean, do you believe in a "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey," then the answer is: maybe.

LOBO: Yeah, well, I'll try to put in a good word for you with Jesus. But I've got a feelin I know where He stands on the whole "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey" thing.

MAR: Thanks.

LOBO: Why do my favorite characters always get killed in your stories? Are you doing that on purpose? And how do you know who my favorite characters are in the first place? Are you a clairvoyant?

MAR: Yes. And by the way, don't get to attached to Suzie in my next book. Really, just save yourself the heartache. Oh, and you might want to get that mole checked.

LOBO: Thag is among my favorite of your characters. Was Thag based on someone or something in particular? And because I like him, how soon will you be killing him if you haven't already?

MAR: Thag is loosely based on the Gary Larson cartoon. Since then, he has become the proto-typical everyman. But he will not be taking the Big Dirt Nap anytime soon. Or will he? We will see how sales of Marvellous Hairy spike after this interview goes live to decide . . .

LOBO: While far from a professional author, I'll get something under my skin and scrawl it on the grocery receipt on my way home -more or less helpless against the urge. This annoys the other drivers, and their excessive use of the horn and graphic profanity makes it hard to concentrate. How does a Mark A. Rayner pour stories? Do you have a formal method -for example, a set time and space for writing?

MAR: I have a word count that I aim for every day. I usually miss it. This makes me feel bad. However, even if I am tortured by my under-achieving slacker Gen-X attitude towards work, the words eventually add up to something and then there is a manuscript that can be edited. This is how I have produced two novels in roughly seventeen years.

LOBO: There seem to be two methods of getting published. The first, self-publishing, requires around $30,000 and necessitates doing all your own promotion. The second is the 'traditional' method -the one where you essentially "get discovered" by a publisher. Because I'm short about $29,995 for the self-publication route, I endlessly submit manuscripts to publishers that are returned weeks later scribbled with profanity and smelling suspiciously of urine. Do you know of any particularly stupid publishers I should try? Like maybe one that buys a lot of scratch-off lottery tickets and extended warrantees?

MAR: I think you've described the entire publishing industry quite accurately. Enjoy.

LOBO: You claim to be a teacher in Canada. This has put me in the uncomfortable position of acknowledging that Canada possibly does exist, despite my numerous assertions to the contrary. Why would you jeopardize my credibility -right smack on my own blog- when you could have simply claimed to live in North Montana? Extremely North Dakota would also have been acceptable.

MAR: I always thought that Minnesota was pretty much like Canada. How about if I'm from Minnesota?

Marvellous Hairy Reviews

LOBO: How did you get out of playing hockey? Did they give you an academic waiver? I would have thought knocking out one of Mario Lemieux's teeth to be a Canadian rite of passage. Do other Canadians pick on you as a result?

MAR: I got out of it the old-fashioned way -- I broke my arm the first time I played. Crying like a little girl helped too. BTW, Mario Lemieux has almost all of his teeth. Nowadays the goal in hockey (ice hockey for all your British readers) is not to knock out a player's teeth, but to cause the rapid brain movement of a player's brain inside his (or her) skull. Much more civilized. (Especially now that women's hockey is so big.)

LOBO: There you go with those parentheses again. I'm starting to think I should consider them a form of attack.

MAR: (You would be a fool to think so.)

LOBO: In Marvellous Hairy, there was a thinly-veiled streak of dislike toward the college where the story is set. Was this a reflection of personal frustration with your own institution, or more an articulation of how people justifiably hate school in general?

MAR: It was more a reflection of how people can dislike something in general. And you'll note that all of the friends are quite fond of their undergraduate school (The Good University).

LOBO: Once again I'll remind you not to correct me on my own blog, Mark. So at what point did you realize you hated kids enough to be a teacher? And would you call it a vacuous rage against today's youth, or is it simple sadism?

MAR: Um, I teach at a university, so I only deal with adults.

Marvellous Hairy Freaky Adult Sex Stories

LOBO: C'mon Mark ... don't mince about. Those punks deserve nothing less than every ounce of your venom. And once all six of the people in Canada get their degrees from you, you'll be of no further use to the university either: they will force you to hastily pack your abacus, chalk, and all those Twisted Sister pins you confiscated. Then what? POW ... it's straight back to hockey. And how do you think Mario Lemieux is going to react when you come wandering in to practice after all these decades? Not too favorably I would guess. No sir ... not too favorably at all. Unless you think you've still got a Stanley Cup in you.

MAR: I don't have one in me. But I've been IN it, if you catch my drift.

LOBO: I would imagine there aren't a lot of monkeys in Canada. Wouldn't your life be simpler if you wrote about companies changing people into cocker spaniels?

MAR: Well, I'll tell you now the radioactive baboon that bit me was a resident of Elgin County, Province of Ontario, Dominion of Canada. (I know 'cause the cop showed me the Incident Report afterwards.) In fact, most of Southwestern Ontario is plagued by roaming bands of baboons -- and not just the red-assed, blue-nosed, Perfidia variety you're used to, no. There is the Souwesto Skint Baboon, always asking for spare change at the corner of major intersections, the White-Throated Hypocraboon, commonly found in churches and you really don't want to leave your children unattended with them. And don't get me started on the Ice Baboons.

LOBO: You know I've read the Travels of Marco Polo, and you know how many times Marco mentions Canada in it? Zero. Zilch. You know, I don't think I'm buying this Canada thing anymore. Fess up, Mark.

MAR: I don't think he mentions the United States of America either. Just sayin'.

LOBO: We probably just didn't want Polo takin the spotlight off of the Godless Yellow Hoard. In fact, we might have asked Polo not to talk about us, you know, until we could at least get some cool fast food and electronics. What can we be expecting next? I know it isn't going to the swimming pool -not the way you trash-talk Marco Polo. Are you working on another book? Tease us with some details. I'm warning you however: if it's a story about a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders exacting revenge on an evil corporation for turning a praying mantis into a cocker spaniel, we will all know you stole it from me.

MAR: I'm working on two projects: One is the heartwarming story about how a cocker spaniel saves a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders from the predations of gigantic evil praying mantis, who happens to be the CEO of a major bio-tech corporation. The other is mostly about a busload of robots having sex with cheerleaders pretending to be cocker spaniels (The Furries, they're called in the book), though there is something in there about bloggers being executed for the capital crime of plagiarism.


Saturday

Down the Rabbit Hole

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Every once in a while, Terri makes me go to visit Doctor Smith.

I don’t really mind doing it. It must be refreshing to occasionally see people as sane as myself, and I consider the subsequent morale boost Doctor Smith enjoys my personal contribution to medical science.

And exhausted from the drive up, I was really hoping he would let me stay for a few days. You can’t beat Doctor Smith's hospitality –she has rooms so comfortable, even the ceilings have rubber on them! And this is clever if you think about it: Doctor Smith can never be sued by a basketball player having bumped his head.

But what I hate about visiting Doctor Smith is the waiting room.

The people in there are freakin' nuts.

“How dare you keep me in here with this frothing hoard of lunatics!” I scream. “This man is wearing a Cubs baseball cap!”

Nurse Garrison glanced down her glasses, over the clipboard. “I don’t suppose you would let me administer a shot, would you?”

“Christ no! I would prefer he was sedated!" I point. "Look! He won't stop staring at me!”

“I mean on you,” replied Nurse Garrison.

What happened next is unclear, because at the sight of the hypodermic I fainted. And -falling off the chair I was standing on- I cracked my skull on a floor.

The waiting room floor, ironically, is utterly devoid of rubber.

Thursday

Everything You Ever Needed to Know About Being Domesticated:

Predator Press

[LOBO]

1) The phrase "I think it was milk" is always followed shortly by horror.

2) Despite being of perfect size and density, a piece of cake stabbed with cigarette butts will get you yelled at.

3) No matter how tantalizing the prospect, never -under any circumstances- try the garbage disposal on aluminum cans.

Wednesday

Zero

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Why is it so cold in here?” I demand. “Jesus this pillow is mushy. And for what we paid, I thought this mattress would stay springy longer! Could we possibly find an alarm clock even more difficult to turn off? This coffee tastes like hibachied cat crap ... !”

“Mom,” asks Screechy. “Why does Dad always wake up like this?”

“He hasn’t been able to complain for about eight hours,” Terri explains. “He’s achieving equilibrium.”

Tuesday

A Mind is a Terrible Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

For all of you who were wondering, my High School Reunion went fine.

Well 'fine' if you include the fact I accidentally let it slip I thought Missus Abbernapple was a "volatile and soulless hippopotamus-toed unfuckable bloated life-sucking hairy totalitarian lizard-bitch, that should die right there in those worn-thin and stinky pastel faux-lesbian flip-flops."

I swear to God I thought Missus Abbernapple was a faux-lesbian! The ACLU is pissed.

So please subscribe to Predator Press at Kindle.

-My bail is currently set at $20,000.

Sunday

A Good, Dead Hittite

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My therapist says volunteering time to teach orphans how to shoplift is a poor way to deal with the guilt of being a true, full-time vehement racist.

And based on my carefully-cultivated image, I'll bet you never would have guessed that. But there it is.

I hate Hittites.

I hate them with a purple, venomous passion.

See, the Hittite kingdom is conventionally divided into three periods: the Old Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1750-1500 BC), the Middle Hittite Kingdom (ca. 1500-1430 BC) and the New Hittite Kingdom (the Hittite Empire proper, ca. 1430-1180 BC).

And I freakin hate all three of them. I mean they are dead, right? How the fuck great can you be if you're dead? Hm? I can, say, go make a pot of coffee. Would you Hittites like a cup of coffee? No? Oh, you're dead you say?

Well, HA HA.

More coffee for me.

And no, I don't think organizing a protest is a good idea ... I'll go Dustbuster on your ass.

We all know intuitively that red is bad, right? Well, just look at this here satellite photo: see how bad these people are? I mean that is concentrated fucking evil! I hope the Sumerians kick the crap out of them!

Indo-Hittites are pretty cool, but unfortunately everytime I see cuneiform, I just wanna puke 'cuz it reminds me of those lousy scumbag garden-variety Hittites. I'm nauseated I gotta breathe the same air they did! Blech. I can still taste Hittite crawling in it.

They oughta make anti-Hittite Febreeze.


Author's Note: This blog does not endorse the ill-treatment of the descendants of the noble Hittite, nor represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author.

No Hittites were harmed during the writing of this post.

Thursday

The Odyssey

-as retold by Predator Press.

[LOBO]

othing deepens bonds like a family vacation.

“Hey baby,” I says into the cellphone.

”Where are you?” Terri crackles over the tiny speaker.

“Wyoming, I think.” I look around for visual clues. While it’s definitely flat wide-open sprawl, there is an ever-diminishing hint of green, and a subtle rise in the highway. “Maybe Nebraska,” I concede, cutting the engine. "Are you guys bonding yet?"

"You wouldn't believe it," says Terri.

I open the car door, and the initial stretching is simultaneously painful and strangely gratifying -but all this is mitigated by a sudden cold burst of rainy wind I’m poorly dressed for.

“I’ll know more in a minute," I shivers. "Feel like helping me do some navigation?”

”Sure. Hang on. I’ll pull up Mapquest.”

The size of these truck stops never ceases to amaze me. Indeed I’ve been in smaller cities. Crossing the vast and icy parking lot under the soft pulse of pop music (Republica maybe?), I can feel the throb of a thousand idling diesel engines under my feet. Throwing the glass door wide, the delightful rush of heat overtakes me -and as an afterthought I look back at the distant car.

It looks as if it has been to war.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, still shivering. As someone with a lot of experience traveling, I’m typically a bit psycho about a given vehicle’s overall condition. But this trip was wholly unanticipated … and the car and I have just endured some of the worst weather I’ve ever encountered; lulled into a false sense of So-Cal weather, taking this trip in February was spectacularly, well, dumb.

”What?”

“Nothing baby,” I says.

“Okay,” she says distractedly. ”I’ve got the site up. What do you need?”

Turning to face the inside of the travel center, I squint as my sleep-deprived eyes are assaulted by the intense wash of a well-lit reception area and the screaming colors of a billion products. “Well, they’re saying I need chains once I get past Salt Lake City. This means those storms are even worse than when I came in. If I can avoid I-80, I think it would be a good idea.”

I should buy a map. There’s really no excuse not to have one really, but the route –up until this point- was pretty straightforward.

”You can drop down to I-25 to I-40 in Cheyenne,” Terri offers. ”But I don’t know how much better off you are on that route. Once past Las Vegas, you’ll have the Tehachapi Mountains.”

Absently, I walk up to a turnstile display of maps and spin through them. Anything near a highway –gas, food, whatever- is just simply rape in regard to price, and I’m not shocked to find that the good maps, the ones I could use, were around $20.

I'm skeptical. “Can the Tehachapi Mountains really be that much worse than Donner Summit?”

”Actually yes,” she replies. ”We go skiing there. Why don’t you give me a few minutes while I check the weather reports? I’ll call you right back.”

And I'm thinking maybe she’s right, you know? I mean who has ever heard of anything bad happening on Donner Pass?

“Okay,” I says. “Love you.”

”Love you too. Be careful.”

“Hey, it’s me,” I remind in my best Han Solo.

“I know,” she replies. “Be more careful than that.”

“I promise.”

Clicking the cellphone to my belt, I approach a group of largish, grubby looking guys I presume to be truck drivers.

“Hey! You! Where the fuck am I?” I ask diplomatically.

Eyes behind a deep beard blink at me quizzically.

“Excuse me?” the beard says.

“This dump,” I says, gesturing liberally around. “Where the hell is it?”

The beard, up above a mountainous figure of a man, peers at his friends curiously. Casually setting an item he was checking out –a power converter I think- down on the shelf, he guffaws. “You can’t be much of a driver if you doesn’t know where you is.”

It occurs to me that this guy is assuming –based on my unwashed, unshaven appearance- that I’m a truck driver too. And before I know it, I’m staring eye-level into his massive chest while his buddies flank my sides.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing in a human well.

“Well I’m good enough a driver to know,” I says, pointing at a small congregation of rolled boogers attached to his considerable sternum, “That you should probably go ahead and eat those if you’re too cheap to buy Kleenex.”

The sternum right laughs. “Aw man, Bandit. That’s gross!

The beard –‘Bandit’ apparently- glowers. “Shut the fuck up,” he says to his pal.

“Yeah buddy,” I says into Sternum Left. “Shut the fuck up. This is between me ‘an Bad-Knit here.”

“That's Bandit, driver. Where are you headed?”

“Southern California,” I says.

Bandit whistles. “Jesus Christ. You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” I says to the heaving chest.

“Well you ain’t going today,” he says. “The weather station says all westbound travel is nothing but storms. We’re stuck too.”

“Yeah well you guys maybe,” I says, thinking of Terri and the kids. “But I gotta roll.”

“That’s fucking suicide,” says the Sternum Left.

“It’s important,” I reply

“What’re ya hauling?” asks Bandit.

“Eh,” I says, thinking fast. “Emergency supplies. For Haiti.”

“Fer who?” asks Sternum Right.

“Haiti, ya dumb fuck,” says Bandit. “They just had some major earthquake or somethin.”

“Exactly,” I says. "Now if you gentlemen would be so kind as to-"

“I thought you said you was goin to Southern California?” Sternum Left asks.

“I am,” I says with a resolved sigh. “Jesus Christmas. I would’ve thought truck drivers would know a little something about geography. I need to cross the border in So-Cal to Mexico, where my load gets airlifted to Haiti by the National guard.”

Bandit whistles. “So this is a government job?”

“It’s exactly a government job, Nitwit.”

“That’s ‘Bandit’.

My phone rings “Yeah whatever,” I says, unclipping the phone from my belt. “This is going to be my boss. Now are you guys going to give me some directions, or are you going to obstruct my load, and thusly cause an issue of National Security? ‘Cuz if it’s the latter, I wouldn’t want to be you. I mean everybody knows Obama hates white people … he’ll have you assholes stuffed into a wood chipper.” I click ‘Answer’ on my phone quickly.

“Hello?” I says into the phone.

”Hi baby,” says Terri.

“Yes sir.” I says.

"What?" she says.

“No sir,” I trail into the call. “I’ve just found some resistance. It seems some local truck drivers have a problem with our humanitarian efforts in Haiti-”

“Hey!” Bandit objects.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” demands Terri.

“Yes sir,” I says into the phone. Looking Bandit square in the beard, I put the phone to my chest to muffle it.

“Bandwidth.”

“Yes,” Bandit replies.

-the fact that he does not correct does not escape me.

I pause. “Have you ever seen someone thrown into a wood chipper?”

“I seen it once,” says Sternum Left.

Needless to say, we all turn to Sternum Left.

Sternum Left shrugs. “I used to work at a Starbucks.”

“Well you all should know,” I says. “That the Obama Administration only puts white people in the wood chipper feet-first.” Finding the slowly-whirling carosel of heated hot dogs (obligatory to any truck driver ‘travel center’), I stare thoughtfully. “That means you’re alive while your legs are ripped apart by rusted, dull, fast-moving steel. And when it gets to the balls, oh man. I hear even Obama admits it's hard to get those screams out of your head ... "

Sternum Right wobbles noisily against a Pringles display, and crashes noisily on the grimy bleached linoleum in a full-blown faint. During the spectacle, I lift the phone from my chest to see if Terri is still on the line.

"-so help me God I’ll-!"

Even as Sternum Right hits the floor, I replace the phone to my breast.

“So what’s it gonna be Rammit?” I inquire coolly.

“Hey, fuck off,” says Bandit. His raised hands, I observe, are the size of my head. Like bear paws. “I just needed a new converter. I didn’t have nothing to do with this Haiti shit!”

“I didn’t think so,” I says, watching Sternum Left -who has rushed to the aide of the now-horizontal Sternum Right. “I suggest you citizens carry on.”

As an alarmed truck stop cashier approaches, I put the phone back to my ear.

“Baby?”

”What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing baby,” I says, adding quickly. “Why do you ask?”

The alarmed cashier, an overweight, acne-riddled woman in her mid-forties, scowled at her toppled Pringles display.

“What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

“I can’t find the coffee,” I says.

Saturday

Daedalus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have learned that you can’t take a Republican’s gun because everyone has an inalienable right to one.

They will say, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people! It’s a matter of individual Liberty!”

But ask a Republican about legalizing marijuana?

“Oh hell no. Just take this here gun and shut the fuck up. It’s fun.”

Okay, cool. I'm not really seeing a problem here.

-As long as the Republicans don't hassle my Dominos delivery guy.