Tuesday

What Stayed in Vegas

Predator Press

According to his ticket, it is September 14.

Everything about Vegas hurts. The garish lights, the animated people, the relentless overloading spectacle rivaled only by the competing relentless overloading spectacle next door ... it's somehow simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting. But a Greyhound station is not a happy place anywhere, and a Greyhound station in Las Vegas is a singular gallery replete with only the most bitterly unfortunate and miserably disenfranchised.

His hand, swollen and agonizing, somehow doesn’t drown it all out. In another universe it was to be drained earlier that day in the clinical safety of a doctor’s office.

Houston, we have a problem.

He didn’t know what “drained” meant when the surgeon scheduled it.

Come in, this is Houston. And you think you have problems ...

He knows now. It was lucky, considering the inflammation, that they did the surgery at all. A subsequent infection was no surprise to anyone.

He had lost most of what he cherished in The War. And the two bags carrying what little was left, the things rescued by simple virtue that no one else wanted them, are as heavy as they are currently useless. Packed months ago –before any of the surgeries- as a precaution. In case of emergency. The contents –aside from the autographed books he regarded as sentimentally irreplaceable- were carefully thought out at the time, but the location of anything else in the jumbled randomness was anyone’s guess at this point. It took an hour, for instance, to find the disposable razor he so desperately needed now. Discretely removing the blade from the blue plastic handle was another thing altogether. It seemed an odd and irrational undertaking as he had a nice and very sharp pocketknife, but, again a sentimental gift, something distantly Samurai forbade him for letting the first blood it ever tasted to be his own.

A Greyhound bus station bathroom is far from ideal, but the draining has to happen now: he had just taken his last two Vicodins.

500 milligrams.

-Laughable.


Further, this would be the only scheduled layover with a reasonable amount of time. The station is sparsely occupied, and the bathroom –actually fairly clean compared to most- is fortunately empty. Cutting away the splint with the makeshift blade, he hurriedly soaps and rinses the newly-exposed, tingling flesh without interruption. The bulbous, colorful swelling strains at the stitching, and even with cursory inspection it's easy to tell where the incision will be required.

Luggage already waiting for him in a selected stall, he entered and locked the door. Carefully extracting the blade from his shirt pocket, he sterilized the tip with the flame from his lighter and tipped the toilet lid back with the toe of his shoe. He was acting quickly, as if to fool the higher functions of his brain which -if engaged- would sanely question his resolve to avoid another emergency room visit.

Even in the most neutral of positioning, the throbbing ache from his hand was unbearable. And this might explain why the cutting was surprisingly painless. Texturally, it was how he imagined slicing into a jellyfish might be. The discharge, a curious mix of clear yellow and blood, oozed instantly at the touch of the blade's tip, and he drew a short line parallel to the stitches. But it wasn’t as much as he hoped, and a larger cut would only require more stitching -thus defeating his purposes entirely.

Even as the thick fluids dripped audibly into the toilet, he set the razor on the gray plastic toilet paper dispenser, grappling with the grim situation … he was going to have to squeeze it out.

That, conversely, was unbearable. Tears seemed to well instantly as he choked down a scream, and as the blinding pain threatened his consciousness he found himself leaning against the graffiti covered plastic stall wall in a vain attempt to remain standing. As a man that has dedicated his life largely to make others laugh, it is in this strange, pure moment he allows himself to feel rage, to want revenge. To stick his knife into the neck of the black man on the bus that keeps yelling, “I’m bringing sexy back!” at random intervals. To hurl the loudmouth woman in the seat behind him -debating who ate her cheeseburger two weeks ago with some other idiot on her cellphone for five hundred nighttime miles- into oncoming traffic by the hair. (I bet that fucking bus would arrive on time.) To personally inflict some micron of merciless suffering back upon this ambivalent and unjust world for a change. Sensing his knees failing, in a deeply-recessed, strangely lucid reflex he lowered the toilet seat and collapsed into a sitting position where he guided the thick, grizzly discharge past the crotch of his jeans.

An unclear amount of time passed. And the mind is odd; even as he fought to catch his breath and slow his thundering heart, he was preoccupied with an extremely overdue book review. The opening line could go something like, ”Over the span of reading this book, I had four broken bones, three surgeries, initiated what will likely amount to a divorce, and had a shitty fantasy football draft. Without a doubt, this book is the best thing in my life.” While not sure how many units that would move, it would certainly fit nicely on the jacket.

The gory flow seeming to have stopped, and he noted the persistent silence. The bathroom, it would seem, is still empty, and the wound would need to be cleaned again before being redressed. He took to that promptly, before his dubious luck changed. Even well-watered down the soap was searing ... but he had forgotten the hydrogen peroxide, and this was likely his next best bet.

Returning to the stall with his luggage, he withdrew his last roll of gauze and some medical tape –among the most recent additions to his gear, they were thankfully right at the top. Once re-splinted, he folded the razor blade and wrapped it generously with excess medical tape so no one changing out the trash might cut themselves. While not the best field surgeon, he was a courteous one -and as this was an uncharacteristically clean public restroom, protecting those responsible for its ardent sanitation seemed the least he could do.

Somewhat relieved the triage was over -cleansed even- the desire for a cigarette was overwhelming. Trying to quit, he hadn't had one in a day or so –and he only had seven dollars to his name anyway. But today was the culmination of several months of horror -quite literally a sanity-cracker. He didn't put much stock in that inner-child pop-psych bullshit, but at that moment he could almost hear the plaintive plea, “No more! Please! No more!”

Once more to the mirror -checking for undetected squirty bloodstains, overall appearance, et cetera. Do I look like a guy that has been hacking myself up in a bathroom? he thinks. Can I pass for 'Normal?' But the mirror was brutally honest, and he seemed to have aged five years instantaneously. There was a drawn, gaunt look he hadn’t noticed before, as if he lost too much weight too fast and his body hadn't yet had time to proportion it out. Twice before putting him under, the surgeon asked if he had any loose teeth. This must be why -the rapid and unexplained weight loss.

There was far too much bad mileage. Period. And decimation thinly veiled already, the damage weathered structurally was now eating at an increasingly unstable core. The universe doesn’t give a shit how many people you made laugh: clown or killer, you’re fodder to time either way. He tried a smile for the reflection, but it seemed disingenuous –even suspicious- for subtle reasons he couldn't seem to quite pinpoint-

Suddenly the bathroom door bursts open, and a stocky Mexican in a purple Lakers shirt walks past at a purposeful gait, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. And for a second, the ailing wanderer is concerned the Mexican is going to lock himself in the stall where his gear still lie, but the Mexican notices the bags and moves on to a stall further down. Still, when traveling, one's bags being out-of-sight is bad policy: it’s not that Mexicans, as a race, can’t be trusted -it’s that Lakers fans can’t be trusted. Or, to put yet a finer point on it, people that wear Lakers tee shirts. Lakers, Yankees, Cowboys ... who doesn't like these teams? It’s borderline cliché, and analogous to wearing something that brags you breathe oxygen.

-“NOT a Lakers fan.” Now that would be a bold statement in apparel.

The larger of the two luggage bags has wheels and a retractable handle. So with the smaller one –the one with toiletries and medical supplies- set on top, once they are tipped back they are somewhat easily moved. Even with one hand. And getting out of there now seems imperative: he could just imagine the Mexican pointing him out to his traveling companions and describing his encounter with the smiling bathroom mirror weirdo. But minus vanity, why care about something so superfluous? For better or worse, perhaps the healing has already begun.

Based on the past,to make claims on a future now seems arrogant and foolhardy.

-But it is definitely time for a cigarette … and with luck, perhaps a cup of coffee too.

Wheeling out of the station entirely, he is greeted by the screaming lights and some familiar music from the left. Golden Gate, the walkway with the overhead lightshow, is featuring The Doors; the eerily-appropriate Break on Through is pulsing through the concrete. And it occurs to the traveler that no matter how hard he runs, no matter where he hides, he will still be there. There is nothing new anywhere -there is nothing different anywhere. What must be escaped is him.

"Arms that chain us, eyes that lie ..."
Instead of cigarettes, perhaps he should walk right into the Golden Gate, under that gigantic flashing effigy of the mighty poet Morrison, and put that last seven dollars on black.

This is Vegas, after all.

Sunday

Predator Press Declares War on Australia!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

EVERYBODY knows how America got started: in 1776 a bunch of us hated soccer so much we loaded up the Nina, the Pinto, and the Santa Fe, and left the oppressive British monarchy forever. We’ve been freely oppressing ourselves ever since.

But what about Australia? Hm? Heck, we left Britain voluntarily … those people were kicked out!

The reason this comes up now is because it’s a matter of National Security: I recently caught Australia skulking up and down the West Coast. It wasn’t doing anything particularly suspicious -in fact at first I thought it was Kirstie Alley; it just rented a boogieboard and tooled about in the surf. But in retrospect I’m almost sure it knew I was "on" to it, and it was trying to look nonchalant.

Exactly why Australia has been sneaking around isn’t quite yet clear, but it has a long history of subtly messing with us with acts such as the “Coriolis Effect”; the Coriolis Effect -first proposed by famous mobster Don Coriolis- suggests that Australians often amuse themselves by flushing their toilets the same moment we do, thusly causing ours to back up.

But now the Aussies have become so brazen they are patrolling well inside our oceanic borders in broad daylight; if you listen closely and the wind is right, you can hear the war didgeridoos blowing in the distance. How long until Australia comes straight up the Mississippi and parks itself near St Louis? Inside agents such as Russell Crowe and Mel Gibson could just wave their arms wildly an yell “Hey! Over here! Lookit my new movie!” and pow, we got Yahoo Serious in the White House.

One only has to see a few photos of the well-decimated and uninhabitable Australian landscape to realize that St Louis, nay, America doesn't deserve a similar fate: an Australian invasion deeply offends my national sensibilities, and I won’t take the inevitable sneak attack lying down.

Unless of course it occurs during my nap.

-In which case I would hope they do it quietly.

Thursday

FREE

NASA photo, or L.A. taxi windshield?
Either way, the universe is a dump.
Predator Press

[LOBO]

Hundreds of years ago -back before many of our parents were even born- clouds of hydrogen succumbed to the intrinsic gravitational forces they exerted on each other, drifted together, combined, and eventually collapsed.  This increased the core temperatures.

Some of these clouds would become so hot and dense they would ignite and become stars. These stars would burn all the available hydrogen, and thus transform what was left into more complex elements in the process.

Hydrogen, in essence, is the first and simplest step toward everything we know in the physical universe. Earthquakes? Hydrogen. Asparagus? Hydrogen. Colon Cancer? Hydrogen. Matthew McConaughey’s acting chops? Hydrogen.

-Hydrogen has been trying to kill us since the beginning of fucking time.

I dunno what this movie was about, but I'm sure it
was chocked full of Oscar-worthy performances
So why has Nature afflicted us with this hydrogen scourge? And more importantly, why has Nature afflicted me with this hydrogen scourge? If you want to know the truth, Nature doesn’t give two shits and a fart about us. Remember that environmentalist guy who was on the high seas trying to protect some dolphins, and a bear jumped out of his closet and killed him? That’s how much Nature ‘cares’ about us. And do you know how much hydrogen it takes to make a bear that will stowaway onboard a ship in a closet to kill a man? This was no accident, Sherlock … this was a Homicide by Natural Causes.

Doubtlessly by virtue of this dialog I have incurred Nature’s wrath: even as we speak, She is vengefully destroying some unpronounceable place on the other side of the Earth, bathing a hapless indigenous people in the full fury of Her terrible lightning, insatiable fires, crippling diseases, howling cold winds, and decades of subsequent famine and strife. Ooooo. I’m so scared! You know what Nature? Is that all you got? Fuck you! Take this craptastic maggot farm and shove it up your ass! I am so sick to death of taking your ill-tempered bullshit, I'm making up profanity -words like 'clitch' and 'slunt!'  It’s high time we showed you once and for all who is in charge, bitch!

Another sandstorm.  Really.  [*yawn*]  How original.
As most of you already know, I, like Mother Theresa, have dedicated my life to easing the suffering of others by marketing a line of products guaranteed to improve otherwise decimated lives. Luckily, seeking out said otherwise decimated lives turned out to be easy.

The Greyhound station was perfect for many other reasons as well. First, it’s a small audience … perhaps thirty people at a time, and all thirty “attendants’ would essentially have recycled themselves on an hourly basis. That means every hour, my message of salvation would race across the country in fleet brick-shaped economic cans of Truth and Justice, stuffed with people spreading The Word of a Hydrogenless Utopia at an exponential rate.

Alas, Nature had beaten me there. I swear every other passenger was carrying a bottle of water –every last one just oozing in hydronic pestilence!  These people were unwittingly spreading Nature’s evil like a disease, and if I didn’t do something fast, hydrogen would be all over the United States within, like, eighty-seven days.

See? This proves it. With science.
All I really remember is smacking an Aquafina out of someone’s lips so hard, it cracked against the wall audibly. ”Don’t be Nature’s whore!” I demanded. “Is that what you want? To be Nature’s filthy slut?” Stunned, the little girl started crying –it would appear being nature’s whore and slut can be a little overwhelming to children. But I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as before the teddy bear she dropped even hit the floor a couple of largish guys started circling me.

Deducing I had already lost the crowd somehow, I dove at a public water fountain against the wall. “Don’t come any closer!” I growled, fingering the fountain lever menacingly. “I’ll fucking do it!”

“My god man!” gasped a security guard. "Don't!" he begged.

Then, I don’t know -somebody flinched. Turning the faucet on, I stared into the stream as it worked its way past pieces of gum in the drain ... and an instant later I was tasting the ice-cold spearmint-flavored death. A woman screamed, and a tough-looking ex military type guy rolled his eyes and just fainted dead away. I hear the closing footsteps and whirl, revealing my cheeks bulging with Greyhound public fountain water, a trickle of hydrogen-laden venom seeping from the corner of one lip.

"We're peeing with you, not at you."
Everyone in the station threw themselves to the floor and put their hands behind their heads.

"We don't want any trouble son," soothed the security guard into the well-scuffed, toxic-looking linoleum.  "Now calm down-"


***

Long story short, without that helicopter they never would have caught me. And they don’t let me into the Greyhound station anymore. But I did learn a lot from it all.  First, maybe selfless and charitable works aren’t my “thing,” right? I mean don’t remember anybody tazering Mother Theresa. I think I will have to market a line of products guaranteed to improve their otherwise decimated lives for profit from here on out.  Burn cream isn't cheap, you know?

Every case of FREE comes with a cart -I mean
what is more environmentally-friendly than that?
Second, I learned environmentalists are dumb. See, I’ve been working on a few other things to save the planet from the hydrogen scourge: one is a diet bottled water -I call it "FREE"- that is one hundred-percent hydrogen free.  But I’m having a little trouble finding a packaging method: environmentalists are already upset about my proposal to make the bottles out of half inch thick steel.

True it’s a few pounds heavier than a full bottle of hydrogen-contaminated water … but there would be a huge uptick in these jobs, and thus a much-needed boost to the American economy.  What the hell do these hippies have against America?  And think about it: isn’t the best environment one completely devoid of Nature? We spend a lot of money separating ourselves from Nature. Do you environmentalists live in a tent or something? If so, do you know what a tent is for? It’s to keep out Nature, dumbass!

Come on.  Is opening a closet without fear of being mauled by a bear in the sanctity of my own home too much to ask?

Hm?

Tuesday

Going the Distance

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One can only assume God, in His infinite wisdom, put me on this imperfect world in order to straighten some of this crap out.

And thusly bound in His sacred charge, I’m occasionally impelled to inform you of how things are going.

The current State of Affairs is, “This Sucks.”

Now I know “This Sucks” is the same State of Affairs as the last time and the time before that-

-you know what? Now that I look, they all say “This Sucks.”

No, wait. Here’s one from when I was in college:

“Fuck, This Sucks!”

Based on the steady decline of profanity in my notes, one can infer there has there has been some progress I suppose: “This Sucks” is clearly more subdued than “Fuck, This Sucks,” reflecting a small -yet undeniable- measure of suck reduction.

If you think about it, Humanity is already reaping the fruit of my hard sacrifices and labor. There is no need to thank me -my humility suggests I would likely be too embarrassed anyway. Moreover I have deliberately made your doubtless gratitude for my contributions nigh impossible to express: you cannot, for instance, send me precious metals, high end electronics or luxury cars -heck, until my preemptive Temporary Restraining Order is lifted, you can't even call.

So this is probably the last 'State of Affairs' update ... I have decided to cancel all future updates unless there is a change in the "This Sucks" status. Why?  Because they are expensive.  “This Sucks” appears to be the upper end of the spectrum for what even a gifted and impossibly handsome mortal man such as myself can accomplish, and I personally deem these reports redundant and needlessly depressing. The Earth sucks. There. I officially said it.

Worsening things, the economy intrinsically bound to Earth sucks, and the hope for getting off of this dump planet and finding another one to complain about is unlikely in the near future: such exploration is often dicey and extremely cost-prohibitive. Thusly forever imprisoned, we may find some solace in that the rest of the universe sucks too -but isn’t this dubious comfort merely a further symptom of the colossal galactic scale of improbable and staggering suckitude that permeates all things known and unknown?

The mind reels ... with this irrefutable proof that my presence has made the Earth suck slightly less, how can we quantify the mind-bogglingly vast amounts of suck probably out there where I am not? You would have to invent, like, a whole new math. And math sucks, don't forget -this only deepens our situation.

Everywhere else in the universe, clouds of hydrogen are collapsing upon themselves due the inescapable power of suck, igniting their cores to create mammoth fusion-powered suck machines that suck on each other to form globular clusters of suck that will one day explode their suckiness all over the rest of the infinitely vast and insatiable sucking void. We have that to look forward to. And that will really suck.

A famous smart guy once wrote something like “And with strange aeons, even sucking may suck.”

Man that guy was ahead of his time.

It was probably me. Or Einstein.

Saturday

All That Glitters

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Estelle Getty
-Died 2008

Bea Arthur
-Died 2009

Rue McClanahan
-Died 2010

Betty White
-Planning best fucking
New Year party ever.

Thursday

The Barnside of Abroad

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apparently I’m not enough of an Obama-hater to be “hip.”

In my defense, I’m pretty ambivalent as far as presidents go. I can’t think of any, for instance, I just fawn over. Presidents are like those lame-assed books from the rack in jail: sure, maybe you’ll find a halfway decent one … but rest assured, some asshole stuck a big green booger in it somewhere.

Still I like that Obama staunchly refused to reschedule today's speech to avoid conflicting with the republican debate, but later promised it wouldn't be so long as to interrupt the NFL season opener.

See? This man’s not unreasonable.

And what are the republicans debating anyway?

Republican 1: I hate Obama more than any of you.

Republican 2: No you don’t. I hate Obama more.

Republican 3: My hate for Obama is so huge, NASA will have to be funded again so we can land on it and explore.

Republican 1: You’re a closet Obama lover, and I’ve got pictures to prove it.

Republican 2: I'll bet you’ve got pictures, you Obasexual.

Mediator: Gentlemen, this is all very confusing. Can we please have a show of hands of all republican candidates who don't like Obama again? Just to be clear ...

Republicans have been around for several years now, and they still haven't figured out who hates Obama more.  So what assurances do we have they will ever figure it out?  Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Mark Levin, and Glenn Beck are some dedicated motherfuckers in pursuit of this title: never a late pizza, never a surprise birthday party, never a stubbed toe, never getting a puppy, never sleeping in, never a great meal, never stood up by a cable guy, never stuck in traffic, never new ideas, never something fresh, never anything but 24/7 Obama, Obama, Obama, Obama.  Frankly, the republican competition for Obama Loathing Champion of the World only seems more intense than ever.  And at some point, shouldn't these guys owe Obama some royalties?

Politically unaffiliated, I occasionally like to hear a conservative opinion -but "I hate Obama" has run it's course, and teeters on the brink of cliché. Now -just as a republican gets rolling- I'll interrupt suddenly and ask, "But do you like Obama?" This forces them to 'shoot their wad,' and reduces an hour of pontification to, "Well, no."

Economic woes are ideal distractions from the research
and development of my fantasy football secret weapon.
Done. You might think Republican's would thank me for accommodating such brevity, but what follows is usually a lot of frustrated stuttering and furious, monosyllabic profanity.

Conversely, what the hell is Obama giving a speech for? Nobody likes giving speeches. You mean to tell me the United States' freakin president can't get out of giving speeches? Then what is the point of getting to be president?

There's always the possibility it'll be important I suppose. I mean maybe Obama will be sitting there drinking beer in boxer shorts and an untied bathrobe, articulating an ardent case of why the Green Bay Packers are probably going to the Finals again, and that the New Orleans Saints are just an overblown 2009 fluke. Or maybe he's a Saints fan, and points out Green Bay averaged only 3.5 yards per carry in four preseason games, tying the team for fifth-lowest in the league.

Presidential decisions are tough.

Monday

Predator Press Declares Self “Official Website of Atlantis”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well why not? We’re just as qualified as any of those other jerks.

-Predator Press has just as long a history of not proving things as anyone: I’ve been questioning the Legend of Bigfoot, the female orgasm, and the existence of Canada since this blog's virtual inception.

Cryptic, vague references to the lost city of Atlantis go back dozens of years -before many of us were even born. The philosopher Plato waxed on and on and on about it. But like everyone else in history Plato is now dead too, and as a consequence of not getting himself on television we no longer have any records of his teachings, nor any idea what he was talking about.

There's a lot of possibilties if you think about it. It might have been Plato's crafty way to trick Diogenes into taking a bath every once in a while. "Here," Plato might say to Diogenes. "Take this bar of soap as an offering, and they might let you drive a flying car!" Or maybe Plato was just really, really drunk.

Many scientists often concur that Atlantis is now in Las Vegas masquerading as a casino -but many scientists also do not agree with this too: this all remains to be decided by careful application of something called the “Scientific Method.” While not familiar with said “Scientific Method” per se, I’m almost certainly going to Pay-Per-View the event; how often do you see guys in lab coats beating each other with tire irons and gigantic robots in pursuit of The Truth?*

Man, science is cool.

In conclusion, I submit that nobody has provided more proof of the existence of Atlantis than we have in this post -thus Predator Press is most deserving of the coveted “Official Website of Atlantis” title.

Eh, plus whatever royalties and recognition that should come with this mammoth and expensive undertaking.


*It seems only fair to warn you, Predator Press scienticians have had a giant robot -well suited for obliterating other so-called “theories” in a spray of blood and bone- in production since 2008.

It even has cup holders now.


Sunday

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.

Thursday

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“What can I do for you?” asks Mrs. Wahlberg.

“Well,” I says to the primly dressed woman. “My wife told me that if I have time to make Sporn, I have time to look for a job. So I saw your add in the paper saying these things would make me very wealthy. I’m totally in.”

Mrs. Walberg beams an unnaturally white smile as we enter the barn. “Do you have any experience with alpacas?”

“Alpacas are in my blood. My great grandfather ran an alpaca store, and my father lost the whole business in hand of poker. Despite the tragedy of it all, I’m third generation." I stick my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans and add, "I'm a legacy if you think about it.”

Just inside the barn now, she stops and reaches for my hand and pats it softly in a gesture of comfort. “It must have broken your heart to lose all those dear animals at such a tender age.”

Alpacas are animals?

“Oh yeah,” I says looking sadly at the ground, thinking quickly. “We had it all. Alpaca merchandising, alpaca cages, alpaca um, food … you name it. And every Christmas dad would pick out the fattest alpaca of all, and serve him up open-pit with a balsamic glaze and-”

I feel her hand stop.

“You ate alpacas?” she asks coolly.

Oops.

“There was never any money for food at Christmas,” I begin slowly. “This was due to –ah- dad’s gambling problem. Yeah. It was either eat an alpaca or one of the kids, and the alpacas couldn’t vote.” I pretend to rub a tear from my eye. “Dad was a very sick man,” I sniff.

“How many alpacas do you want?”

“I need to make a lot of money quick. How many do you have?”

“Several hundred.”

“That’s probably a pretty good start,” I says. “Will they all fit in my car or will I have to make a few trips?”

Mrs. Wahlberg laughs. “Oh look,” she says, pointing behind me. “One of them is curious about you. Her name is Molly.”

When I turned to look, I saw a freakish creature so hideously deformed it could only be explained by God being really, really mad at it: it looked like the product of a deeply inbred dog raped by a meth-addled ostrich.

I'm pretty sure I screamed before I passed out.

Meh.

-I've had worse job interviews.