Quack Attack

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Staring at the doc staring at my bare foot, it occurred to me how seldom it is I'm not wearing shoes, socks -something- on my feet in public.

-The last time I remember trying that was two months ago, hobbling around on crutches in a splint for a short walk: all that came of it was learning my Early Warning System's calculation of how much broken glass lay about was a woefully underinflated quantity.

Maybe I contracted hepatitis.

The doc twists my aching ankle at impossible angles, and I try not to squirm. C’mon LOBO, I’m thinking. This is minor. Be a man. It’s not like you’re Joe Theismann-

The doctor, momentarily satisfied with the knot tying on my lower leg, sits back on his heel and adopts a thoughtful expression.

“Nyarlathotep?” he asks.

I scowl. “What team does he play for?”

“No,” he corrects. “I mean Doctor Nyarlathotep gave you the referral to see me?”

“Oh,” I says. “Yes. Sorry. I was thinking about sports medicine, football-”

He smiles as he stands, and peers deeply into backlit x-rays of my Adonis-like ankle. “You’re a football fan too, eh?”

“Yeah,” I says blandly, experimentally wiggling my toes. “I used to live around the corner from the Chicago Bears’ training camp.”

“Well you have a lot of ligament damage,” he says. Clicking his pen, he grabs my chart and scrawls some notes. “But I can correct that with a very simple outpatient surgery.”

“Huh,” I says. “So doc, who is your team?”

Don’t say Packers. Don’t say Packers …

“The Rams.”

I don’t remember anything after that.

-But I’m pretty sure I screamed.

Eating dis Order

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I think you should add some rice,” I say, staring into the bubbling red soup boiling in the monstrous crock pot. “It looks kinda watery for chili.”

Mother still towered over me, and I was about eye-level with her apron tie. “Your father doesn’t like rice,” she replied, stirring. Blowing on a dripping wooden spoon, she brought me down a taste. “What do you think?”

Pinto beans in hot water.

“How about jalapenos?” I suggest.

She pours a bowl. “Your brothers and sisters hate jalapenos.”

“Salt?”

“Nobody eats salt,” she says, bringing the bowl to the table. “Sodium is bad for your health. Now stop complaining and eat. I want this all gone when we get back.”

“Where are you guys going?”

She folds her apron and grabs her car keys.

“We’re going to McDonald’s.”