The Heart of the Artichoke

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.

LadyTerri found this rather laughable.

"Supervillain?" she scoffs. "You passed out when I told you there were artichoke hearts in your salad."

"I'm a vegetarian!"

"Artichokes are vegetables."

"Well, that explains the rather lackluster effect of me gaining the vitality and courage of the artichoke by eating it's heart," I concede.

"If you're a vegetarian, why do you always want me to make pork chops?"

"'That which does not bend breaks,'" I recite wisefully.

"Stop quoting fortune cookies," she demands.

"Look," I insist. "I need a certain number of pork chops a day. I'm hypoglycemic."

"So you're going to be the world's first hypoglycemic quasi-vegetarian Supervillain? You blubbered like a sissy when Bambi's mom got shot."

"Hypoglycemics are prone to counter-regulatory hormones triggered by the falling glucose, and the neuroglycopenic effects produced by the reduced brain sugar!" I protest.

"Stop quoting Wikipedia!"

"I already bought a cape!"



***

I take exception to LaryTerri's doubts. Since childhood I have wanted nothing more than to be a Supervillain.

Dammit, I thought. What does she know? I'm absolutely oozing with, um, Supervillainiousness.

In fact I question the credentials of virtually all other acknowledged Supervillains!

Take Lex Luthor, for instance. How long can you go on as a qualified 'Supervillain' when you've known your arch-rival Superman's greatest weakness for decades and have yet been unable to exploit it? Lex shoulda just used a surface-to-air heat seeking missile to affix Kryptonite to Superman's keyster in flight. Suddenly, Superman can't fly any better'n a garden-variety cinderblock. Plus he ain't the "Man of Steel" anymore. Splatto! End of story.

Getting your ass kicked once a month hardly qualifies.

They shoulda called that guy Lex Loser

Still, I can't expect to go from zero to Supervillain overnight.

I need a reputation.

So I decides to do some midnight skulking.

Unfortunately, midnight is pretty late. I need a good 16 or 17 hours of sleep a night or I can't function at all. Plus, if I came home after midnight LadyTerri would totally kick my ass. But it occurred to me that midnight skulking at around 8:30 would be really sneaky ... no one would expect that.

Man, that's positively evil.

Ominously seizing the lunchbag she packed for me off of the counter, I made my way out to seek my evil destiny.

I started small. Once sufficiently dark, I tried kicking over the neighbor's garden gnomes. But the ground is frozen; all I did was painfully jam my toe. I figured I would have more luck with the trash cans, but their dog heard me and woke 'em up.

"Get the hell away from my trash LOBO!" Jeanie Anderson yelled.

"I'm not LOBO, Jeanie!" I replied, eyebrow arched.

-Hah! Already spinning my webs of deceit, I'm just crawling with evil now!


***

I wasn't really afraid when Stan Anderson loosed their dog Rommel on me.

That's not why I ran.

I ran because it's 6 degrees, and I'm wearing nothing but black rubber and spandex, a mask and cape.

-I'm freaking freezing.

Full-blown Supervillains seem to get way cooler uniforms. I'm not sure why ... maybe they get discounts for dry cleaning. This would be a good thing, because I keep forgetting I'm wearing the cape and dragging it outside the car door.

And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.

Rommel then proceeded to dismember my car piece by piece. It was quite frightening; first it was small items like the door handles, mirrors and windshield wipers. Then those powerful paws appeared in my windshield; he clawed my rumpling hood for purchase while his enormous foam-dripping teeth shredded newly-exposed engine in enraged frustration.

Rommel paused to growl hideously at me through the glass, and I could see cuts and blood on his gums; rearing back as if in a sudden moment of inspiration, he began hurling himself against the windshield repeatedly, and web-like cracks began to race across with every impact.

Now this is why Supervillains have henchmen. I could've used a handful here. I could, for instance, make one get out and push. And then as the dog kills him, I make the next guy get out and push. -And continue on in that fashion until the beast's bloodlust was sated, or until I had been sufficiently pushed free.

Plunging finally through the windshield, I was surprised when Rommel passed right over my femoral artery and voraciously attacked the pork chops and salad LadyTerri packed for my dinner.

My God, I thought. This is the meanest Boston Terrier I've ever seen.

... and now he has eaten the heart of the artichoke too.

Dragunov

No.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Working for a book distributor, it's safe to say I see several thousands of book covers a day.

I judge each and every book cover ruthlessly, with zeal, and in a fraction of a second.

So I've never read anything by Heather Graham.  The only reason reason I "clocked" her, in fact, was because I incorrectly thought this was the movie actress (from "Boogie Nights" and "Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me") turned author.

"Bride of the Night?"  Seriously?  I can feel
my temples closing in on each other.

-But alas the book covers were already judged.  I wish there was something I could do.

I am firmly sure the author Heather Graham that is not actress Heather Graham writes some damned brilliant literature on par with actress Heather Graham.  But would someone please help author and non-actress Heather Graham out with her titles?  Author and non-actress Heather Graham is making actor and non-author Heather Graham look like a bad author.

I submit the following for your consideration:

The Presence

The Sinister Urge

Night of the Vampires

Bride of the Monster

The Death Dealer

Jail Bait

Deadly Gift

Half of the above titles are Ed Wood movies -the guy famous for "Plan 9 from Outer Space."

Can you pick out author, non-actress Heather's?

Or Die Trying

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having had the shit beat out of me by years of bad economy –my second Recession should you count the one in the 1980’s (and you SHOULD)- was bad enough.  But to follow it now, just when things are looking slightly in the "less" abysmal side, with gray hairs?

Really?

-O cruel and vengeful God.  Why me?  Couldn't You just pick on Job some more?  That whole thing was hilarious, and it still holds up after all these years.  Or how about Bryan Robinson?

I noticed God's playful "mayhem" in some detail shaving this morning: gray hair a go-go.  And we’re beyond the random stray.  WAY beyond.  We’re full on into tufts!  I’m not doing the “salt ‘n pepper” thing gracefully either:  I’m getting a full-blown shock of white above my right temple, like a lopsided Bride of Frankenstein.  Now when I hiss and spit at people, it’s going to seem cartoony!

Still, I’ve made the conscious decision to not try dies and crap.  Mostly out of fear that that’s one step removed from buying a red Corvette Stingray and a lot of gold necklaces.

Or worse.

A Penny Saved

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Well sir, if you remember, you took out half of your 401k in 2008 as a loan to put down on a car.”

“Yes,” I agree into the cellphone. After the Phone Tree, I am frustrated.

”Also in 2008, you also listed yourself as wanting to retire in 2009. So you gave us your entire salary that year, and we did the most high-risk, stupid asinine things we could think of with it.”

“Go on.”

”It turns out you owe us $900.”

“Really?”

”Yes. And you're a dead man.”

Crazy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't know who this woman is, but I want her apprehended and incarcerated immediately.

-The use of unnecessary force is highly recommended; I'm sure we'll have no problem figuring out charges once we've dug up her basement.

This is the vacant, thousand-mile stare of a woman with four -or possibly more- cats. And can you imagine what her pillowcases look like?

[*shiver*]

LOBO is Officially Sick of Being a Mom (Day I)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Fond of some local companies, I figured I would start a Softball League.

But because it’s negative five degrees outside, it turns out I’m the only commissioner, coach, manager, and player so far.

Today is the first LBL World Series.

And my statistics are amazing.

LOBO is a Mom (Day IV)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Everyone is always sayin’ “Bein a mom is sooooo hard,” and “Childbirth is blah, blah, blah, ...”

But don't be fooled; it turns out this whole "Bein a Mom" thing is the easiest thing on Earth. A transparent scam for Hallmark cards! Hell I haven’t even seen the precocious little scamp since Day 1.

-As a “chip off the old block,” I’m assuming she has taken initiative and enrolled herself in Elementary School or something.

LOBO is a Mom (Day III)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Stretching, Dave Harrison scratches his neck and remembers how overdue he was for a shave.

As a Tier Two Customer Service Rep for Southwest Airlines, he answered mostly calls forwarded up from people that initially take calls and field the routine issues.

And it’s true that as a “T2CSR” you get yelled at a lot.  But overall the T1CSR’s usually get flustered by some hostile treatment and overlooking some simple solution or policy.  To avoid this, Dave checks his computer screen preview of the issue prior to answering the phone.  Making an already-irate  caller repeat themselves too many times would be the equivalent of driving tanker trucks of gasoline into a volcano.

As a four year veteran of the Southwest Airlines Customer Service, he rarely saw an issue that surprised him anymore.

But this time the screen read:


“Customer wants to know how many Frequent Flyer miles he needs
before we hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen.”

Already reaching to the phone, he pauses and leans on his elbow instead, rubbing his temples, his eyes.  The CS1s are taking these notes superfast, “live” and often being distracted by the customer.  Sometimes a misplaced comma or something …

But doing this hundreds of times a day, Dave suddenly hears himself saying, “This is Dave Harrison.  How can I help you with your Frequent Flyer miles?”

”Hi Dave,” says a cheerful voice.  ”How many Frequent Flyer miles do I need before you guys hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen?”

“Your Frequent Flyer miles are perfectly safe with us,” replied Dave with a well-practice smooth.  Still, unsure if he was on track with whatever this is, his eyebrows furrowed.  “How many Frequent Flyer miles do you have?” he asked, fishing for information.

“I don’t have any yet I don’t think,” replied the caller.  “That’s my next question.  How do my Comfort Animal and I set up accounts and stuff?  I assume I have to buy my Comfort Animal a ticket.  But does she get miles too?  Or maybe a percentage?”

“No,” Dave replies.  “But are you sure you have to buy your Comfort Animal a ticket?  What is it?”

“It’s a ladybug.  In a jar with holes poked in the top.  Probably.”

Well away from the mouthpiece, Dave sighs.

“Where are you going?”

"We’re not going anywhere yet.  Well, not planning it anyway.  Just checking. Where do you keep our miles? Is there a vault or something ...?”

LOBO is a Mom (Day II)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, my little darling hasn’t made an appearance today.  Which is probably good, because I had a nightmare last night that she was the first of an entire brood and, utterly famished, dissolved me to a skeleton before I could scream.

All new parents want to be lied to about this harsh, jagged reality.  But my case is a little different because ladybugs are considered good luck.

I would have had the luckiest skeleton on Earth.

But there wasn’t a swarm, so it is likely I only have one.  That’s why I went out and got some Creatine Supplements, bodybuilding milkshakes, and occasional random naked steroids.  For the beginnings of an evil army of minions, a two thousand pound balding ladybug with shrunken testicles and rage issues is delightfully ironic.

I've officially named her “Rommel.”

LOBO is a Mom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a cat owner –currently sans cat- a bug is kind of an event.

Particularly a flying one given the complexity of entering my lair.  The ladybug must have "hitched a ride" in or on my clothing.  And with good reason frankly; three weeks ago we had just settled down to our first good local deepfreeze.

But she -the ladybug- was fucked.  It was unsurvivable outside, and I didn’t have any plants for her to eat.  I didn’t even have any windows.

So I “googled” ladybugs, and found out that aside from aphids they are more or less omnivores.  There was generally water and an occasional dirty dish.  While I’m not hauling in foliage, I figure she had a better bet with me than the subzero temperatures.

But over the span of that week, she grew grayer and less colorful.  The last day she didn’t even bother to hide from me; she just hung on the ceiling.

And I was sad.  This tiny little thing had stabbed its way through a maelstrom of garbage inconveniently into my inner-circle of consciousness; she was certainly going to die one way or the other … maybe there was a greater dignity in having crushed her on sight in the first place.

I have vacuumed at least four times under the spot where the grey, unmoving carapace of the ladybug was last seen, and haven’t given it a thought since.

-But today I found the teeniest little ladybug drinking water from a drop in the bathroom sink.

I Promise I Will Not Donate Any of the Proceeds of This Miniseries to Worthwhile Charities

Predator Press

[LOBO]

hump-wrrrrrrrr!

Starboard.

Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre paced his deck pensively, and the sound was excruciating.  The seasoned Captain, missing his right leg below the knee, had a peg as pirates do.  But on his good foot, he had taken to wearing a rollerblade.

-Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre has been clocked at 35mph.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Stern.

Stressed and sleepless, the sound was impossible to ignore.  Only Vetter, nestled comfortably in a nest of comically large-seeming rope, snoozed deeply.  Even Nuk and Futz clocked the Captain, Max, and Brighta warily.

The captain, staring into the brilliant nighttime horizon, gave deep sigh to the salty air.

Max, balancing a long dagger on his fingertip, never took his eyes off of Brighta as he addressed the Captain.

“The treasure is there,”  he assured.

Brighta, arrow knocked, eyed Max with cool regard.  Brighta could put three arrows in Brighta before he could close the distance between them.  The Captain, however, kept pacing between them, making this geometrically a white-knuckled triangle of potential combatants.  It occurred to Brighta that Max was probably clocking the Captain more than letting on too.

“I’m confident this is true,” replied the Captain with almost a sarcastic lack of conviction.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Bow.

“We’re lost,” mumbled Portre softly to the masthead –a wooden mermaid, tail deep in foam, rising before the cloven sea.  Pivoting on his peg, he leaned back to watch his unwitting hostages -mostly to ensure they were not listening.

“I know,”she said without moving.  “I got the coordinates from the First Mate of the Sea Nile.”

Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually.  From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”

“It’s unclear,” replied the mermaid.

Portre guffawed and spat.  “I am weary of your ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity?  You've sailed seven with no food on a map a dog gave you.”

“You never told me First Mate Noodlecakes was a dog.”

“Yes I did,” replied the mermaid.  “When he told you ‘I’ll bite your balls off if you get near the treasure,’  I explained to you that he was a Yorkshire Terrier.”

“Well he’s not a British aristocracy.  He’s a dog.”