Wild Kingdom

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."

Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.

This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.

Stay tuned in 2075.

While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.

I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.


***

LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.

When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.

Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...

"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.

"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"

"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."

"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."

"God that would be so tasteless."

"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."

"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.

"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."

"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."

"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"

"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."

LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."

A UPS truck pulled up.

"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"


***

The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.

I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.

"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.

To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"

"What's all this?" I ask.

"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.

"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"

He pulls one out. It says:

"___________ is a DICK
VOTE FOR LOBO"

"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.


***

I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.

Well, more accurately, it reads:

Democrats

Mr Insanity
Ethan

And in another column it says:

Republicans

Sapphire
Phoebe

Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.

And under those, it's scrawled:

Democrats=2
Republicans=2

Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."

"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."

"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"

"Eeeyikes--!"

"Or Ann Coulter?"

Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."

"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"

"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."

"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"

"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."

"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."

"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."

"You mean President."

"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."

"An animal?"

"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."

"You think?"

"How about a gorilla?"

"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."

"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"

Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...

You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.

"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "

Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."

"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"

I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."

"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."

Suddenly I can't breath.

"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."

Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."

"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.

"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."

LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"

"Absolutely not."

LOBO sulks.

"How did you pay for the posters?"

"Credit card," he says.

"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?

"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."

I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"

"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "

"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"

"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"

"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.

He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."

"I don't think that's going to help you."

"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"

"No," I says.

"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."


***

I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.

"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."

I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.

It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.

" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."

"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."

"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."

"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."

"Affirmative. How is it up there?"

"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"

I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.


***

The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.

Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.

So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.

So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"

"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."

"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.

"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."

"What do you mean?"

"I needed to break out my running mate."

"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"

"Yes," says LOBO.

Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.

LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"

"Well, I just figured--"

"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.

I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.

In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".

"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.

"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"

Tar Baby

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

I hand the clipboard back through the sliding glass window, and the nurse scrutinizes it with great interest through thick, black-framed Buddy Holly glasses you associate with the nerdy.

"Hm," she began. "No drugs or alcohol? Really?"

"No ma'am," I says. "He says he doesn't like sharing the credit."

That's when I start feeling my first pangs of guilt. At least when LOBO did drugs, he would tend to be a little more reclusive. And cautious. Manageable. But drug-free status only emboldened him. In his eyes, I think, he was just finally taking his rightful spot in the world with the rest of us clean lunatics.

Still, this was a kind of half-truth. LOBO and I have blown some occasional weed. But I don't feel like explaining to some nosy puritanical asshole how they should mind their own fucking business about people's private recreational pursuits. We're adults. And we're not robbing liquor stores and crashing cars.

It's commerce really. Dolly Madison and XBox should send us fruit baskets.

Fuck off.

"Are you the next of kin?" she asks without looking at me.

"No," I says. "Well, I'm not sure-"

Shit.

"No," I reply flatly.

"Your relationship with the patient?"

The official title, the one I put on my taxes, is "Assistant". But that doesn't really cover it, does it Ethan?

"Handler, I suppose."

"Really?" she says again.

Somebody get this woman a Thesaurus.

"Yeah. We work for Hawly Enterprises. Publishing. My guess is that the CEO is sort of David's benefactor. Like Jerry's Kids or something. Probably a public relations thing."

"Maybe he figures Mister Curr is safer where an eye can be kept on him."

"Yeah. Or maybe everyone else is safer that way."

"And he's insured by-" she squints at the scribbly clipboard. "Hawly Enterprises?"

"Yeah."

"Well, bless this Mr Hawly. He sounds like a wonderful and noble fellow, what with looking out for the handicapped and all."

And his tax exemptions.

"Yeah, I'd fuck him," I says dryly.

She glares at me, a little stunned. "Please have a seat," she says, grabbing the sliding window. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

Thud.


***

I hear her voice over the PA system as I'm flipping through archaic issues of Sports Illustrated and Time Magazine. "Doctor Keller, please report to ... "

Selecting an antiquated Sports Illustrated, I try not to make eye contact with anyone else in the waiting room.

Sitting, I notice I've unbuttoned my suit jacket completely on 'autopilot'. My belly -clear evidence of my new-found success- rolls out and swallows my belt whole.

I've grown pretty used to all this money.

I imagine how I'll be gingerly explaining to Ethan that while he was on vacation, my "charge" -and his best friend- was recently committed. This is serious. Even more serious than when LOBO took a shower at Phoebe's place and left hairs stuck in the soap, sink and bathtub, and she burned her own house down in utter revulsion.

No matter how much arson I've covered up, no matter how much insurance fraud I've committed, the addition of 'Handler' on my new resume won't seem very potent.

Goodbye salary, goodbye expense accounts.

I wonder if Ethan will let me keep my clothes, my car.

I'm the Predator Press whore.

It should be me in here.


***

Doctor Keller arrives, rescuing me from excruciating speculation over who is going to win the 2004 World Series.

I stand, and we shake hands.

"Thank you for coming," he says.

I was expecting a white lab coat. A stethoscope. A pager.

Doctor icons for people who watch too much television.

Doctor Keller is in khakis, a button-up checkered shirt, expensive preppie-leather shoes and a matching thin belt. He looks more like somebody who orders baked potato skins and a diet Coke at TGIF, and then stiffs the waitress on a tip. But the more I think about it, the more it made sense, really. In his line of work, it probably pays to not appear so clinical and imposing.

"How is he?" I ask as we walk past through the door. From the waiting room, it looks like a door anyway; once inside, the facade drops abruptly, revealing a massive cage.

I think of tiger traps you see in cartoons, the big hole covered with palm tree branches.

Long halls of white gloss, antiseptic smells, and steel mesh are the Feng Shui of Crackerland today.

You must be this nuts to take this ride.

I'm expecting something more like Arkham from Batman comics. Still, where good Doctor Keller let me down, the tidy innards of Bertram Asylum did not disappoint.

"He's, well ... " the doctor begins. Keller is walking really fast. I don't think visitors see this wing often. "Comfortable."

"Comfortable" is doctor-speak for sedated.

"Keeping him good and stoned, eh?" I ask, smiling. "Doc, I've spent the last year with that crazy bastard. You can drop the clinical euphemisms."

"No, I'm afraid you don't understand," he says.

Jesus Christ this guy walks fast. We stop at a massive steel door, and he slides his keycard through a protruding slot.

"See for yourself."


***

Through a large, thick, one-way glass window, we can see LOBO. In white pajamas and a straight jacket, he's sitting cross legged in the middle of an empty room.

He looks peaceful. Like he's meditating. You could easily imagine little glowing butterflies circling his empty head.

"Wow," I says. "I was expecting him to be really upset. You must've given him some really great shit!

"We don't have him on any medication," replies the doctor.

"Huh?"

"He's been a model patient. He's healthy, and no danger to himself or others."

"So why is he here?" I ask cautiously. I can already tell I don't like where this is going.

"Well, frankly, it seems he doesn't want to leave."

My fuckin jaw must've been on the floor. "Doc. I thought you brought me here to clear up some paperwork. Maybe even visit--!"

"No. We've been trying to release him for several hours now."

Covering my eyes, I fall back into a convenient viewing chair.

I forgot to unbutton my jacket, and the button cracks loudly against the glass.

LOBO stirs to the sound.

The doctor continues. "We were hoping you would help us make his departure, well," the doc thought for a moment, "voluntary."

I open my eyes, and watch LOBO struggle to his feet. He squints into the glass.

"But he's fucking crazy!" I insist.

"Yes. He has a lot of emotional and psychological problems, true. But nothing that warrants him staying here."

"But he's fucking crazy!" I repeat, pointing at the glass, dumbfounded. "Are you sure you're not a patient here? Where's your goddamned stethoscope? I need to see some fucking credentials, mister--"

"With the proper medication and counseling, he can be handled on an outpatient basis."

"Oh!" I chuckle, digging for my wallet. "Now I've gotcha. Listen, if you're angling for a bribe, boy are you barking up the right tree." I spread it open and break out the greenbacks. "I've got about three hundred and eight bucks here-"

"Sir," Doctor Keller says calmly. "Please put away your money."

I pull out a Master Card. "How about a thousand? You got a bank machine here somewhere?"

"Sir, it's illegal to keep him here unnecessarily."

Fuck.


***

The orderlies none-too-gently drag LOBO into the small room where Doctor Keller and I waited.

And the second he sees me, Judas, his eyes light up.

"Hey buddy!" he beams. "I'm glad you're here. This is absolutely the best fucking resort I've ever been in!"

"Can I have a sedative?" I ask the doctor.

"The food kicks ass," LOBO continues, "and you don't have to wash dishes, do laundry, shave, bathe yourself or anything."

"No," says Doctor Keller.

"They even cushion all the walls and floors so space isn't wasted on furniture!"

"C'mon, doc," I says. "Look how happy he is. You're gonna kick this guy out into the street?"

"-Legless Jim is here! And you'll never guess who else ... "

"Napoleon?" I says, faking enthusiasm.

LOBO is dumbstruck. "How the fuck did you know? I thought that was classified ... !"

"It's in the brochure," I says.

Doctor Keller nods to the orderlies. "I don't think there's any need for the restraints."

But as they reach for the buckle on the back of the straight jacket, LOBO flinches away.

"Hey, hey!" he says, leaning forward. "Back off, buddy. It's chilly in here."

"Mister Curr," says Doctor Keller. "We're all here to once again ask you to please vacate the premisses."

"But this place is great!" LOBO insists. "Ethan would absolutely love it-"

Doctor Keller sighed. "Mister Curr. David. This isn't a resort. It's a mental health facility."

LOBO looks at the doc, puzzled. "So?"

"So we would like you to please leave."

I can tell by his voice LOBO was wearing Doctor Keller down.

An opportunity.

Maybe there's still some hope here.

"Losing your 'patients,' Doc?" LOBO grins.

"Very clever," he says.

"Let me get this straight," I says finally. "You found this guy sane?"

"Yeah," says LOBO. "What the fuck kind of doctor are you? Where's your stethoscope?"

"I never said 'sane'. I said I want him out."

Between LOBO and I, we can sense the professional veneer cracking.

"Haven't you read my blog?" asks LOBO. "It's full of fairies and dragons and zombies and robots-"

"A creative endeavor of healthy expression," the doc counters.

"You are aware that he just signed a deal with the Fox Network, right?" I ask.

The doc had no answer for that one.

"How about for just a couple of months?" LOBO begs.

That did it. Doctor Keller abruptly stands and hurls his plastic clipboard violently against the wall, causing the orderlies to duck from the rather impressive makeshift shrapnel. Whirling on us wild-eyed, he tears off his expensive-looking glasses and crushes them in his hand.

Still squeezing the mangled wire frames tightly in his clenched bleeding fist, he screams "WOULD YOU TWO JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!?!


***

I press the button on my keychain, and the Mercedes' alarm chirps in the distance.

"They wouldn't even let me keep the jacket," LOBO whines dejectedly.

"They needed it for the doctor," I reply.

"Hey," says LOBO, grabbing my arm, stopping me. "Thanks for pulling for me in there."

"Don't mention it," I grumble.

Sulky and resigned, we start heading for the car again.

"Just lay off the craziness for a while, okay? Don't go running for President or anyth-"

I smack my hand over my mouth, even as LOBO's eyes light up.

Meltdown

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Saint Peter had stepped momentarily away from his desk, leaving Robot LOBO to stare at the walls.

Beep, Beep.

It seemed that the computer tracking LOBO's sins was suddenly clocking them at an alarming frequency.

Beep, Beep.

And here he was alone with it.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO resisted the binary impulses to purge the files.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO re-prioritized the automatic prompts insisting he hack into the Cosmic Mainframe and unlock the Secrets of the Known and Unknown Universe.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO shut down the digital commands insisting he discern who killed him and why, and then transmitting the information to the eighty-six other Robot LOBOs, thereby initiating swift and lethal payback.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's phone number.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO disengaged his cerebral stimulator, and its directive to put David Lee Roth back in Van Halen.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO revised his autopilot's stipulation that he steal Saint Peter's banking information and credit card numbers.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO ignored the lines of code compelling him to go back in time and kill George Lucas immediately after the release of The Empire Strikes Back.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO bypassed his secondary drive signature's requisition that Sid Vicious never meets Nancy Spungeon.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO fought his back-up system's sequenced instructions that the The Electric Slide, The Macarena, and Achy-Breaky Heart never be released.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO overrode the behavioral inhibitor component presets demanding he look up Jessica Simpson's Phone number (again).

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO sublimated the tertiary drive core urging him to download illegal copies of music.

Beep, Beep.

Robot LOBO even cancelled the elaborate Faux-LOBO programming, impelling him to browse porno.

Beep, Beep.

Sometimes I feel I've got to ...

Beep, Beep.

... get away, I've got to ...

Beep, Beep.

... get away ...

Beep, Beep.

... Robot LOBO was getting very tired and confused trying to behave ...

Beep, Beep.

... and now he had that damned Soft Cell song stuck in his head ...

Silver Bullet

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

LOBO woke fourteen hours later.

Weary of waking up in strange cities handcuffed and dangling from highway overpasses, he had more or less quit drinking and drugging since mid-2005. Still, there was a certain anxiety involved in waking up and not knowing where he was; digging his nails into the couch until his knuckles were white, he clung for dear life until the book fell off his face and he realized he was in one of Ethan's spacious offices.

He waited a few moments quietly for his heart to stop racing.

Aside from this daily whiplash into consciousness, morning minus a raging hangover augmented with vertigo and overbearing automobile exhaust wasn't an entirely bad experience; he yawned and stretched, quietly contemplating breakfast in the receding fog of deep sleep.

The clock said 8:00.

Morning, presumably.

The harsh daylight probed the still room aggressively through the blinds he separated with his fingers. The streets below the Hawly Centre were bustling with activity.

A wonderful and familiar aroma crept in the room, and a thick sputtering sound came from the reception area. Simultaneously rubbing his eyes and scratching his balls, he blearily wandered out.


***

Empty.

Sapphire was late.

This really wasn't that uncommon as Sapphire moonlighted as a stripper. And given the noble, selfless nature of her alternate career choice, Ethan tended to give a lot of latitude when it came to her occasional tardiness.

The silvery coffee maker, on a timer set up the night before, dutifully began it's routine operation surrounded by eight equally-chromed little mugs. On the ornate table it rested was a small sign that read:

Please help yourself.

And right under that, it read:

(Except for LOBO)

A rather selective reader, LOBO ignored the second half of the sign.

Ethan strictly forbid LOBO's consumption of coffee.

But Ethan was in Mesopotamia.

Or Germany.

Or whatever.


***

Sapphire breathlessly hustled out of the elevator into the opulent hallway at around 8:10, and no sooner did her key touch the hand-carved double doors when the doors exploded open.

A bug-eyed, twitching LOBO pounced her in a fierce embrace.

"HiSapphireI'msogladtoseeyou Youlookbeautifulthismorningasalways Andyoucertainlydon'tneedaboobjob MrInsanityisjustanassholeandtryingtoexploityouforyourgoodies Icouldn'tfindatoothbrush IsthatpursearealPrada?It'sreallynicequalityleather Therearen'tanymessagesandIvacuumedthewholefloorandscrubbedtheceiling AndIalsodidEthan'staxessoyouwouldn'thavetogotoH&RBlocktomorrow."

[quick breath]

"Doyouwantanythingforlunch? IamthinkingCantoneseormaybeKorean I'mdefinitelyupforsomethingspicy PleaseforgivemeasImustbegoing IhavetofindareallytallbuildingsoIcanjumpintoouterspace IthinktheMarsRovermightneedanoilchangeandtirepressurechecked Bye!"

And he was gone.

In the office, Sapphire found a coffee cup on the floor next to the remnants of two sugar packets and a tiny plastic dairy creamer cup.

"Fuck!", she exclaimed as she ran for the phone.


*****

The 128th floor of the Montgomery Building, six miles away, was the Penthouse.

It was also the home office of the Fox Network local affiliate.

"Come on people," demanded the guy in a suit into an intercom sitting at the end of a long oak table. "Our ratings are completely in the toilet! We need a magic bullet here. Something fresh. Like a story about a rag-tag team of misfit underdog athletes who exceed everyone's expectations and triumph in the end. Or a prince giving up his throne so he can marry his one true love, a peasant girl that his parents can't stand. Or a love story about an creepy looking weird loser that has no money and somehow endears himself to some unlikely woman way too hot for him. Or maybe a group of pretentious, wisecracking yuppies making callow observations about the inane meaninglessness of their lives. Or a hospital show about the rigors of being brilliant, sexy emergency room doctors --or maybe lawyers-- whose lives are complicated by romance, professional ethics, ambition, and the passion for their careers. Has anyone ever done feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs? Everyone would watch shows based on feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs. Dammit people, we need edgy!"

"How about a reality show?" yells a prim, studious-looking woman in glasses way at the other end.

"Brilliant, Miss Fielding!" says suit guy into the plastic speaker. "How soon can we get it?"

"We're already in production, Mr Ward," she assured him. "Would you like to hear the premise?"

"Not really. What's it called?"

"Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire"

"I like it!"

"We're having some casting difficulties, however," she noted.

"Like what?"

"Well, we've already cast billionaire heiress Lexus Hilton as the hot single millionairess, and we've got Chip Intel as the ringer to win. But what we need is a sexist, unemployed, multi-phobic crazy broke loser slob as the foil. We can't seem to find anyone quite crude, repugnant, and simultaneously animated enough to pull it off."

Suddenly, an alarm sounded.

Mr Ward pressed the intercom. "What's going on? Is there a fire? And do we have any available cameras to film the screaming casualties of the tragic incident?"

"No Mr. Ward," replied a different disembodied voice. "But I think you might want to come out to the reception area right away!"


***

Dripping sweat from running six miles and then up 128 flights of stairs, a random pile of human lie on it's face, tangled impossibly in the receptionist's phone cord.

"I'mtellinyoupeopleifsomeonedoesn'tcallNASAandtellemI'mgonnabelatetheFBIsgonnacomedownonthisplace andthenyou'llallbetotallyscrewed!!!" He wheezed breathlessly, flailing violently against the ground.

A security guard, getting a little too close, screamed as the frothing, foaming figure sunk it's teeth into his ankle.

"What the hell is that?" asked Mr. Ward, poking the snapping, snarling creature with a long stick.

"I don't know, sir," replied Miss Fielding, approaching cautiously.

Turning, LOBO got an eyeful of Miss Fielding's open-toed shoes at point-blank.

He screamed.

"GET THOSE SCALY HALITOSIS-RIDDLED TALONS THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!"

"Miss Fielding," grinned Mr. Ward to the retreating woman, pointing. "Get this man a contract!"

The Lexicon Border

From : LOBO (-----------@hotmail.com)
Sent : Saturday, July 20, 2006 9:53 PM
To : Ethan (-----------@hotmail.com)
CC : The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Subject : Naked Disfigured Twister® Midgets!!!

Hey Buddy!

How'z the "trip to Germany" going? I know you an Dayle are supposed to be "on vacation", so I won't tell anyone that you're a super-secret double agent with a big bush on your helmet, climbing through razorwire in the eastern Mesopotamian DMZ with sensitive microfilm at three o'clock this time. In fact, I just tell everybody you took Dayle to Disneyland ... although that makes the razorwire sound a lot more fun.

Phoebe was really jazzed over that fantastic fruit basket you sent. I was jealous at first, but then I found out that they don't make pork chop baskets. Now I'm copyrighting the idea; big lean cuts decorated with chicken wings and long strips of crispy bacon, complimented with a big bottle of vintage A1 sauce, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and heart medication. And then when I'm filthy rich from it, I'll buy Germany and have it airlifted here so you don't have to fly as far.

(If Europe bitches about the big hole, I'll replace it with New Jersey.)

Anyways, all is quiet. Mr Insanity is "auditioning" new roomies, 'an the last one was --oddly enough-- German. Cute too! And complete with the six-foot two blonde and blue-eyed Aryan boyfriend. She seemed a little preoccupied with how small the oven is, but overall it went pretty well; we're already boning up on our Riverdancing techniques.

Everyone says "Hi!", and we miss ya!

LOBO

Press Paws

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

"Consider how he thinks. The dinosaur, the Bronze Age, the Industrial Revolution, World War II ... along with the rest of history, they are all BL and cannot possibly have any effect on him today. As a consequence, he considers it all entirely irrelevant."

"BL?"

"Before LOBO."

"Huh."

The computer beeped twice. Some kind of alert. Saint Peter turned and read the new info through the bottom of his glasses. "Says here LOBO is currently engaged in harassing the elderly."

"Is it in traffic?"

"No. That wouldn't count."


*****

LOBO's eyes alternated from the thick file to Mister and Misses Driskel in a cold and calculating manner.

"Farmers, eh?" he sighed finally.

Theodore Lawrence Driskel of Clawson City, Utah, was quite frazzled. They had driven twenty hours to get here, and the rather aggressive "interview" was now in it's third hour. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses with shaky, liver spotted hands. "Yes sir."

Examining the file, LOBO's eyebrows lifted. "Soybeans?"

"Yes."

"I fucking hate soybeans" LOBO growled.

Ellenor Jean Driskel --AKA "Ella"-- interupted. "We also grow green beans and corn--"

"--Silence!" LOBO's icy glare skewered her. "I'll get to you in a minute," he snarled. Spreading the file with his fingers, he tapped his fingers on Ethan's broad desk. "So you both have made roughly $45,000 a year for the last ten years, have excellent, well, immaculate credit, with the exception of filing bankruptcy in 1974."

Theodore and Ella looked at each other in mild discomfort.

"Relax," says LOBO, smiling like a hungry python. "That's why we're here. You're doing fine." He browsed the files some more. "Psychological profiles are good. And you both passed the physical and drug test with flying colors." He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "No criminal record?"

"No sir," replied Mister Driskel. "We're regular church-going, God-fearin plain folk. Ella plays the organ for the Sunday service."

"No criminal record whatsoever?" LOBO inquired.

"No sir," repeated Mr. Driskel.

LOBO sighed, slipping a blue sheet of paper out from under the stack. "Well, unfortunately, we've found this."

It was a Chicago parking ticket from 1968.

"I'm sorry you've come all this way," he continued, "but I'm afraid this responsibility cannot be just fobbed off to common liars and criminals."

Ella burst into tears. "I'm sorry Theo! I never told you--"

Theodore Driskel patted Ella's hand comfortingly.

"--the Democratic National Convention was so packed. I only wanted to drop off some cookies and bandages for the protesters."

LOBO shook his head disappointedly. "As I said, I'm sorry. Please see yourselves out as I have a very busy schedule."

"So that's it then?" said Mister Driskel, squeezing Ella's hand gently. "We're getting turned down because of a forty year old parking ticket?"

"No," replied LOBO coolly. "You're getting turned down because your wife is a filthy lying anarchist and a cheap, wrinkled nationalist pinko whore. We could've won Vietnam if not for you peacenick Abbie Hoffmanites--!"

"--Now just a minute young man!" demanded Mister Driskel, standing. "I don't know exactly who you think you are--"

LOBO looked up with great interest as Mister Driskel rolled up his flannel sleeves.

"--but I'm not going to sit here and take you insulting my wife any longer!"

LOBO leaned back in Ethan's chair, grinning. "Fiery! Protective! ... I like that." Pulling out a long, bulleted checklist, he ticked off two points. "That put you at a final score of 210 out of a possible 300." Smiling, he folded his hands together and pointed roughly at the old couple with his paralleled index fingers. "And that's marginally passable".

Mister Driskel froze, confused. There was a stunned silence, interrupted periodically by Ella heavy sobbing.

LOBO opened a deep drawer, and produced a tiny white and brown spotted kitten. "Congratulations. It's name is Meowy." Recently informed that it's impossible to tell a cat's sex for several weeks by Ethan, LOBO had tried to stop randomly assigning genders to them. It was, after all, a somewhat important matter, and he had decided to give them some privacy in that regard.

Mister Driskel took the miniscule animal, and sat, arm around Ella as she heaved uncontrollably.

"There there, Emma," soothed LOBO as he offered a tissue. "You understand that a rigorous screening process in necessary, right?

"That's Ella," corrected Mr. Driskel.

"Whatever. Say, are you guys hungry?"

"Well, actually ... " sniffed Ella.

"Well, too bad you can't stay. But there's a pancake house right up the road on the way to the freeway. You can go there right after you fill out all the paperwork Miss Sapphire has for you on the way out. Goodbye."

The Driskels collected themselves, and hobbled for the door.

"Oh," added LOBO, standing to see them out. "One more thing. Meowy gets milk and Eukanoba everyday. And albacore tuna on Sundays ... not that crap tuna."

"Got it," says Mister Driskel.

"And I'll be checking up periodically," continued LOBO. "If Meowy isn't getting his shots regularly and very happy in his new home, I'll come to Clawson City, cut your fucking commie nuts off, and feed 'em to Phil in a lobster bisque."


***

LOBO walked in and simply collapsed on the couch.

"How'd it go?" I asked with mild interest.

"Well, I found a home for Meowy," he replied.

"You've been at this for weeks," I says. "How many have you found homes for so far?"

"Two," said LOBO. "But I'm rethinking the Stillsons. I think I could do better for Bob."

"You've really got to let this go at some point."

"Maybe." LOBO picked up his paperback copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Choke. Again I watched. I've never actually witnessed LOBO read before, and that particular book has been sitting --upside-down and split open almost perfectly in the center-- on the coffee table, for over six months unmoved. It left a dustless clean rectangle.

And just as I suspected, LOBO lay back and set the book over his eyes.

"I guess you heard that the Liberty Bell got cracked by the trucking company," I says.

"Yeah. Now nobody'll want the damn thing."

"Did you try ebay?"

"Nah. I already got Max, Brighta and Vetter trying to get rid of it. I told 'em to sneak into some kind of battle somewhere and ditch it so's nobody will suspect it was my fault."

A few quiet minutes passed.

"Did me being alive really fuck up Sapphire's boob job?" he finally inquired.

"Amongst other things, yes."

"How come nobody tried to talk her out of it?"

"Because whenever women get a boob job, they're typically really anxious to show them off."

"She doesn't need a boob job," says LOBO from under the book.

"But that's not really the point, is it?" I was losing interest in this conversation fast, not particularly interested in LOBO's pontification on the matter. Still, I couldn't resist. "How would you know if Sapphire needs a boob job? And for that matter, why do you care?"

"I guess I'm just not a big fan of unnecessary surgeries I suppose. She's already beautiful."

"But then she would be beautiful and have gigantic cans. I'm not following you here. What are you, gay?"

LOBO sighed. "Look, if my ex-wife didn't make me gay, nothing will." He paused. "I guess I'm just a little skeptical when I hear about women putting themselves through excruciating and expensive pain voluntarily. Particularly when they say that 'I'm doing it for myself' bullshit. I don't get it."

"Well having babies isn't exactly a picnic. And I hear kids end up costing hundreds of bucks what with college and all."

Pause.

"Yeah, maybe they are all fuckin nuts."

And LOBO fell asleep.

A Proud New Sponsor

Predator Press

Too slithy for anything but the mimsy of gyring toves, wabe bororoves and gamey bandersnatches every frumious brillig?

Do you find yourself always galumphing around the tulgey with uffish, manxome, whiffling thoughts of completely outgrabed mome raths?

Well, break out your vorpal sword under the Tumtum tree and chortle with frabjous, beamish joy as you gimble up some all-natural nutritious lowfat Snicker-Snacks ®! *

Eat Snicker-Snacks ®
by Jabberwocky

Now chocked full of vitamin-fortified Jubjub!

* Warning: possible side effects may include drowsiness, dizziness, migraines, insomnia, temporary blindness, stomach cramps, hallucinations, aneurisms, nausea, cancer, democratic fundraisers, projectile vomiting, projectile diarrhea, tsunamis, wormholes, lesions, malignant tumors, and conspicuous erections in prison.

If consumed, please consult your physician immediately.