Saturday

THE SHART LIVES

LOBO -Predator Press

"I'm not exactly certain why I'm here," I admit to Mr. Wayne.  "Shit I didn't even know this room existed before now.  You Human Resources people really go 'all out.'"

Wayne eyes me over a stack of documents.  "You and Lois Lane flew to Gotham last month as company representatives," he says.

O shit.

Wayne leans back in his chair.  "Would you care to explain to me what happened?"

I pour a glass of water from the pitcher to give myself time to think carefully.  Living in quiet dread of this conversation, one might expect me to be more prepared for this.

"Well," I start, clearing my throat.  "In fairness, I should point out that Miss Lane was going through some, eh, 'relationship' problems-"

"Just tell us what happened," Kent interrupts.

"She just started fucking everybody."

"What?"

"Yeah," I says, tugging at my collar.  "I mean that chick is a freak.  Her ankles need separate visas.  She fucked everyone on the airplane, two taxi drivers, three dudes she picked up at Starbucks, and the guy that takes orders at the Burger King drive thru."

Kent removes his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, and I am distracted by the thought that I have seen this man before.

"She didn't even get out of the car for the Burger King guy," I continue.  "It costed me a fortune to get that security footage and upload it to the internet. Jesus Christ, that vagina is so polluted the government tattooed the zip code of Love Canal on it."

Kent puts his glasses back on, and I realize I was mistaken.  Nope.  Never seen this guy before.

"Did you hear about the goat thing?" I offer helpfully.

"We know all about the goat thing!" Kent replies angrily.

"Kent, I've seen flies come out of it."

"We also know that you have been secretly moonlighting as a crime fighter," says Wayne.  "What do you want to tell us about The Shart?"

"You mean beyond the tee shirt I'm wearing that says 'I am The Shart?'"

"Yes," says Wayne.

"Swift, lethal and tenacious -like the shark- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I'm smart," I stand heroically, hands on hips. "I am The Shart."

Wayne taps his fingertips together in thought.  "Metropolis is in need of a new superhero," he explains, "and we need this whole Lois Lane thing to go away quietly.  I am prepared to offer you full access to everything Batman uses."

"Like the Batmobile?"

Wayne sighs.  "Yes."

"And the Batphone?"

"Yes."

"If I start a softball league, can I use the Batbat?"

"Don't push your luck," says Wayne.  "Now you need to pick your arch enemy.  How about the Joker?"

"Too dangerous," I says.

"Lex Luthor?"

"Too stupid," I reply.  "I mean why doesn't Luthor just attach Kryptonite to that douchebag Superman pussy while he's flying?  Superman can't fly anymore, and he's mortal.  Splatto!"

"The Riddler?"

I offer a tissue to Kent.  "Does Kent always blubber like a sissy at these meetings?"

"You have to pick an arch enemy," says Wayne.

"Well slow down there, poncho," I says.  "I need a practice arch enemy first."

"At the bottom of the list, we have 'The Litterer,' 'The Jaywalker,' and 'The Guy That Never Tips at Outback Steakhouse.'"

"Jesus Christ," I says.  "Are you trying to get me killed?"

Wayne scrolls.  "The only one left is 'The Vandal.'"

"There we go," I says, smacking my right fist into my cupped left hand.  I will punch that guy's orbital socket until, um, it is really far away.

"Really?"  Wayne asks doubtfully.  "The Vandal?"

"Yes," I decide.  "Banksy turns a worthless brick wall into priceless art.  It's an insurance nightmare.  Fuck that guy."

Sunday

Here Be Dragons

LOBO -Predator Press

'Carpenter Pants.'

Ugh.

-The modern, durable version of 80's 'Parachute Pants.'  Minus the teal, and presumably more flame-retardant.

Presumably.

"There are too many options and pockets," I explain.  "I don't even know where my penis is."

Saturday

Lestrade

LOBO -Predator Press

Nicki Minaj was sitting two seats in front of me.

Nicki Minaj!

I tap her on the shoulder.  "Miss Minaj, I am a huge fan."  I beam, showing her my iPod Shuffle.  "I own all four of your songs."

The next thing I knew her entourage was "all up in my grill," wanting to throw me out.  This was complicated heavily by the fact that we were on an airplane.

[*sigh*]

I miss Lindsay Lohan.

Saturday

Falala Banana

LOBO -Predator Press

A little research unearthed all I needed to know about my regional manager, Falala Banana.  Miss Banana is feared company-wide, and mostly because she can rip Capri pants with her calves Hulk-style at will.  She is reputed to have killed underperforming employees with her toes.

But it turns out we have history.

Back in 2006, I met Mohamed "Chainsaw" Miller, a twenty-seven year old a six foot six behemoth, and a rabid football fan.

"Why aren't you in the NFL?" I asked.

He stared down at me for a second, thinking carefully.

"I never ate me no human pancreas before," he replied.

Glad to see we were on the same page, I instructed him to shave everything, and went on to forge his new birth certificate and enroll him into a junior high school to pursue a football scholarship.

Chainsaw Miller led the Ottawa Otters to five consecutive championships (yes, five -I recommended he flunk twice).  But what I didn't know was that he was secretly being scouted by the Oakland Raiders.  Chainsaw Miller wasn't ready for the "Big Leagues."  For one, he couldn't read: he promptly screwed up a play and was blown up rushing center by Tyvon Branch, LaMarr Woodley, three cheerleaders embroiled in paternity lawsuits with him, and Julio Fernandez.

Julio Fernandez isn't even a Raider -he was just getting gas at a nearby convenience store.

Thus, Falala Banana was born.

The Four Corners

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Disposing of my junk mail and shredded bills to prevent identity theft.

At great expense to me, I fly Destry Dentin, DDS, from London to Sydney, Australia to destroy most of it.  Those guys can butcher the hell out of our fine American language, and oddly understand each other.  I am confident all relevant information will be promptly lost.

But Albert Dente can be a little more complicated.

"Yes I threw the crap into Mordor."

"Wait," I says into the speakerphone.  "You were supposed to throw that stuff into Mount Doom."

"That fucking thing is really, really tall.  And I mean that shit is in Mordor now.  It's probably only a matter of time at this point."

"You just walked up to the border of Mordor, and chucked my mail?"

"Yep." [static] "... and ... have a crush on Cindy."

"Cindy and Rachel are lesbians."

"I have a crush on Rachel too."

Tuesday

Alchemy

-LOBO, Predator Press

Many immolated themselves. Many jumped from tall buildings. Many immolated themselves, then jumped from tall buildings.

-But I am having a hard time keeping up with life events.




In the meantime I will be occasionally appearing at the Humor Blogger Fantasy Football League.

I'll be back.  I promise.

Monday

Why Does Heaven Need Gates? Is It In a Bad Neighborhood?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So you raised four times as much as you need for the divorce?" Al asks, still browsing Tinder on my phone. "How about this one?"

O please Al. Shut the fuck up. For five minutes.

"How long until the divorce is final?" Albert Dente continued relentlessly.

"Who cares?" I reply. "I decided to let the lovebirds take the hit. I paid off my car instead."

Wednesday

Fly Fighter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Well, neither of us can afford a divorce," I says.  "One of us had to figure out a way to monetize the situation and get it over with."

Rachel frowns.  "You don't think this is a little extreme?"

"All's fair in love and war.  They will thank me later."

"I kinda doubt that."


Thursday

Soaking Sunset

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's bad enough I'm stuck in traffic trying to get Lars Arson to the airport.  But it suddenly dawns on me Lars has chosen this moment to give me some professional criticism.

Fuck.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" he asks.

I laugh.  "No."

"You need to stop answering me on reflex."

"What does that mean?"  Lars and I are pretty comfortable as friends, but occasionally I forget he is one of my bosses.

"I asked you if you knew everything."

"Of course not.  But if there's something I need to know, I know how to learn out about it."

Lars pauses.  "But how do you know you need to know something?"

Am I being fired?

I think about these questions carefully.

"A circumstance occurs," I says, stalling words by pretending to be preoccupied by unmoving traffic. "And if I find a problem, I'll seek a solution."

"That's reactive," says Lars.  "Can you be preventative?"

I'm a little stunned.  "I'm not sure."

"I don't think you can."

Trapped.

"I could prevent this conversation by driving into oncoming traffic," I reply, despite the fact that oncoming traffic is stopped, and within arm's reach.

"That's reacting to this conversation," Lars replies.

"So what are you getting at?"

"You're swimming with sharks now," he replies.  "Reactive animals don't fare well against sharks."

I'm getting angry, but I don't really understand the implications of what he is saying.

"I've spent three years being beat to a pulp for virtually nothing-"

"Relax,"  says Lars.  "Nobody knows better how much of a life-imploding experience this has been on you.  But you showed up."

I really can't tell where this conversation is going, but I am weirdly tearing up.  This is just a really, really excruciating way to get fired.

"I've always been pretty prudent about the company," I says.  "Am I going to get a decent reference?"

"You were 'prudent' before your divorce," Lars replies.  "Now I'm not sure.  And I'm retiring soon. I suggested you to replace me."

???

"But I hate flying."

"That," replies Lars, "is a 'reactive' problem." 

Tuesday

Al Dente Inferno

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I woke up annoyed that, for the third day in a row, something went wrong on the coffee pot timer.

The coffee didn't start, and I would have to undergo the arduous task of pressing a button and wait fifteen minutes.  So I jump in the shower sans caffeine, consciously suppressing screaming obscenities into unsympathetic porcelain tiles.

My brain, well-advised against starting a day like this, tried to head me off.

"Relax, man," it said.  "It's not like anyone died."

-And this kinda worked, until it added the afterthought:

"Eventually, everybody dies at the end of this story."

That thought threw me into an utter crippling existential funk.  I started thinking about everyone I knew, friends, loved ones, children, pets ... all finally dying, and worse, kinda taking guesses at what Fate had in store for them.

I am supposed to take Lars Arson to the airport for his flight back to Illinois, but I don't know what time he is supposed to be taken to the airport.  The couch has a wide defensive perimeter of In-N-Out Burger wrappers, video games and controllers, and Corona bottles.

Rachel yawned as she entered the kitchen.  As far as I can tell, she is only wearing an oversized t-shirt.

"Are you working already?"

"I'm trying to," I says, honestly seeking distraction.  "But I can't figure out if I'm supposed to log in under A01, A07, or A10."

"Go warthog," she says.  "Hey, this coffee is terrible."

She didn't know I was at the show last night, because, well, she bombed pretty badly.  I raced home unsure if my presence would only have somehow made things worse.  The decision of who got the guest bedroom was left for my guests to decide (Lars was predictably gracious), and I retired for much-needed sleep probably long before she arrived.  Call it cowardice.

"Look," I says.  "If you are going to stay here for open mike nights, why not just move in?  I have plenty of space, and I could use the help."

"Because the coffee is terrible," she smiles.  "But thank you for letting us stay."

Us?  She picked someone up -and slept with him in my home?

"Cindy came to the show," she says.

-Okay, now I am depressed and have an erection.