Te Amo

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Robot LOBO #32 arrived at the Pearly Gates bewildered.

The last thing he remembered was being eaten by wild dogs as he desperately held his breath to avoid inhaling deadly biological nerve toxins. Nothing particularly unusual or out of the ordinary.

But now he was dead.

By now, there was a small line of Robot LOBOs waiting to speak to Saint Peter.

"Hi Robot LOBO #32!", says Robot LOBO #71 and #16, waving enthusiastically. "Jesus Christ what a handsome robot."

"I was just about to say the same thing," grins Robot LOBO #32. "You guys are downright gorgeous!"

"What happened to you?" asks #71.

"Hezbollah," he replies.

"Wow," says #16.

"Yeah," says #32. "What about you handsome devils?"

#16 blushes. "You know I'm not sure. I got in a car and went kablooey. Could have been a defective reactor core."

"Or maybe the mob," offers #71.

"That's a really brilliant insight," ponders #16. "I never thought of that. It could have been a really ugly, jealous mob. #71, you must be a genius."

"A really good looking, sexy genius," ads #32.

"What about you, #32?" asks #71.

#32 held up his right hand, inspecting his fingernails with arched eyebrows coolly. "I knocked up Phoebe."

"No way!" says #71.

"You're shitting me!" says #16.

"Nope," says #32.

"You lucky bastard," says #71. "You handsome, brilliant, lucky bastard."

"Tell us how it happened," says #16.

"Yes, please do," says #71, bouncing and clapping his hands. "Give us details!"


***

LOBO hated going to Chicago. It was always a big pain in the ass.

As usual, he would ride straight up Interstate 94 until he hit the inevitable gridlock. Deciding that this was more parking than it was actually driving, he would then abandon his car wherever he was --right there on the interstate, in the sea of beeping and cursing-- and walk the rest of the way.

It wasn't a perfect or particularly convenient system admittedly. But on occasion, when he came back hours later, the car was still there, surrounded by the same beeping and cursing people that were there when he left. And sometimes, when he was really lucky, it would have maybe fifteen or twenty feet of open road in front of it.

At least he didn't have to tote around change for a parking meter.

This particular time he got within eight miles of his destination before the "parking" started. It was shaping up to be a fine day.

So, shuffling northward, he was reading the used car classifieds as he walked. In no particular hurry, he arrived at Phoebe's posh apartment building three hours later.

Outside was a disheveled, smelly guy, holding out a tin cup.

LOBO took the cup and looked inside. It was full of nickels and quarters. "No thanks," he says, handing it back to the bewildered guy. Tapping his temple with his index finger, he replies "I did the free parking thing."

But as he starts to walk away, he notices someone else walk by and drop some change in it.

"Wow," says LOBO. "That guy just gave you money? Just like that?"

The guy with the cup stared.

"Oh I gotta get in on this action," he says to no one in particular. "This city rocks!"


***

So LOBO returns from the nearby convenience store like twenty minutes later with a small bag. Unwilling to soil himself, he also had a Diet Pepsi which he promptly poured in his lap. Figuring an environment less hostile to the olfactory senses might be more lucrative, in the bag he had two dozen pine tree air fresheners which he proceeded to sneakily hang on all the other people on the block holding out cups.

With a black marker and cardboard, he countered the abundant "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" signs with "WE ACCEPT VISA AND MASTERCARD". Where one guys pants hung too low, LOBO's hung lower. Where one's clothes were inside out, LOBO's were inside out and upside-down. When one drooled, LOBO gushed. When one sang tunelessly or cursed at people that weren't there, LOBO recited Alanis Morisette lyrics while doing the Electric Slide.

"Oh come on!" he complained when the guy in Army fatigues missing his legs scooted by on a skateboard. Frustrated, LOBO beaned "Skateboard Guy" with his empty plastic cup, frothing unrepeatable obscenities.

Pulling up his pants, he skulked on up to Phoebe's apartment in defeat.


***

Three hours later, the phone seemed to ring forever.

Finally, the semi-familiar voice answers. "Yeah?"

"Is this Fat Louie?" asks LOBO.

"Who wants to know?" says the disembodied voice.

"This is LOBO."

"Who?"

"You know, LOBO. We met downstairs. You asked me if I needed anything. Like 'H' or dope or crack or women."

"Oh yeah. You're the guy that said you were 'so horny you could fuck a plate of sheet steel'."

"Yep," says LOBO. "That's me."

"Well what do you want?"

"When you sold me this, uh, Liquid G stuff, you said 'one drop in a girls drink, and I was guaranteed to get laid'."

"What happened?"

"She fell asleep!"

"Ummm ... what did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know. I figured maybe she would call up some hot friends with loose morals."

Pause.

"Uh huh," says Fat Louie.

"Should I use some more?"

"God no," says Louie. "Too much of that stuff could be dangerous. I would put it away. In something you know nobody will accidently drink out of."

"Like a can of Tab? I'm way ahead of you." LOBO pauses. "How long is Phoebe going to be out? I think I need a ride home."

"About eight hours. She won't remember a thing, either."

"So I'll need to write out some directions?"

Another pause.

"So what can I do for you?" asks Louie.

"Well, I'm bored. And I already watched all her Dawson Creek dvds. How's the wife and kids?"

"Look, 'LOBO'," says Fat Louie. "You got any condoms?"

"Yeah. I bought a whole 12 pack because I thought--"

"Use them, dumbass."

A click, and a dial tone.


***

Use the condoms? LOBO thought. What am I going to do? Make ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, 'lubricated for her pleasure' sausage?

LOBO didn't get any ideas until he went in her bathroom. There, he found rows and rows and rows of Phoebe's bottled perfume.

It was all cheap shit, too. No Safari.

Remembering the hobos in the street, he started making pleasant-smelling water balloons. It took about five or six burst ones to determine the maximum density of a water-slash-perfume filled condom, and he disposed of the unusable ones in the toilet.

"Bombs away!" he cried over Phoebe's 35th story balcony, scoring a direct hit on Skateboard Guy.

Finally out of ammunition, he returned to the kitchen, thirsty. Finding an unfinished can of Tab, he chugged the whole thing as he wandered in to see if Phoebe had woken yet.

And passed out right next to her.


***

Phoebe woke to find LOBO snoring loudly.

That's strange, she thought.

Having been unconscious for quite some time, she headed immediately for the bathroom, where she found an empty vial labeled "Liquid G", and a half-dozen burst condoms floating in the toilet.

Screaming doesn't begin to describe it.

***

"What happened then?" asks Robot LOBO #16.

"She was trying to wake me up, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying; for some reason she was really upset and had one of those Early Pregnancy Test slides in her mouth. Evidently, I might have gotten her pregnant somehow-"

"Maybe you're so virile that just being near her was enough. Did you go near any cabbage patches?" asked #71.

"No."

"Or leave a half dollar under her pillow?" asked #16.

"Nope," replies #32, shaking his head.

"I'll bet that sneaky Skateboard Guy had a half dollar," reflected #71.

#32 points to his nose, and continues. "I calmly explained that she shouldn't be ashamed of succumbing to her natural sexual desires for me, what with me screaming out all these incredibly manly testosterates everywhere. She's only human for God's sake; it's biology. And even though it was more likely Skateboard Guy's baby, I would raise it with her like it was my own, and we should get hitched so's the kid ain't no bastard."

"So ..."

"I don't know what happened next. Something crashed into my head. I turned to look, and it was the sidewalk."

"Hah!" says Saint Peter. "See Gabriel? You owe me fifty bucks!"

Die with a Tee

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

After a few months, I could get around pretty well without the wheelchair or crutches. This was good news because my new trailer park digs weren't handicap accessible. Still, I needed help to move, and LOBO was the only one to volunteer.

So we got every last stick of my solid carved wood Victorian furniture in place, and miraculously without scratching or breaking anything. And LOBO worked really hard surprisingly; he didn't even complain while we hauled my Grand piano up the circular stairway.

"I don't know why you didn't just have me move in with you at your old place," he says, sulky.

"Less talkee. More workee." I reply.

Finally finished, I announce that I'm going to spend the rest of the day watching the White Sox game. LOBO hates sports, and I was hoping this would encourage him to leave on his own volition.

No such luck.

So I hop in my soon-to-be-repossessed Mercedes to go get some groceries --and get away from him for a little while.


***

LOBO liked the rusty yellow El Camino on cinderblocks I got with the place a lot. So much, in fact, he decided to get some more cinderblocks while I was gone as a surprise housewarming gift; unaware that my 300SL Gullwing Coupe was facing imminent repossession, he decided that I might like to proudly display my vehicle in such a manner.

But after hunting for hours, the only cinderblocks he could find were filthy ... completely unsuitable for such a beautiful vehicle. Faced with no other option, he decided he would have to settle for some blocks that were in decent condition and wash them.

As he struggled carrying the sixteenth cinderblock to the growing pile in my shower stall, he happened to step on the bathroom scale. Reading his weight combined with the cinderblock, he freaked.

"Oh my God, I'm a fat fuck!" he screamed.


***

The tow truck was already there waiting for me when I returned, and it was hooked up even as I fished out my frozen pizza and the half bottle of Early Times. And in the oppressive 102 degree August heat, I watched them haul away my baby.

Turning toward the house, I notice a half a dozen neighborhood dogs circling the place.

That's strange, I thought.

I entered my new pressboard palace, and it was quiet.

No smell of smoke, no screams.

No LOBO.

"LOBO," I called, heading for the kitchen.

Something rumbled.

I began to preheat the oven, and in fifteen minutes or so, I've got a sausage pizza cooked. I look around for my pizza cutter. The drawers, only hours ago filled with the Tiffany silverwear set and cutlery, are inexplicably empty.

Something rumbled again. A picture fell off of the wall.

An earthquake?

I headed for the living room again. "LOBO?" I called again.

"Avert your eyes from cellulite horror!" he cried.

A massive yellow foot emerged from around the doorway.


***

LOBO staggered into full view in one of those giant yellow biological suits you see in the movies. There were strange, awkward corners, random bulges, and odd tears all over it. "I'm sorry," he says. "For me to fully enter the living room, you will have to go back into the kitchen."

"What the fuck happened while I was gone?" I demanded.

"I don't know!" he sobbed. "But I'm a lardass now!"

I never should have left him alone, I'm thinking. Whatever this is, this my own fault, really ...

"I have been eating the same thing everyday for years," he cried. "A box of Ho-Hos, and two liters of Mountain Dew. Nothing more, nothing less. It's a strict discipline. And now look at me! I'm mordredly obese!" LOBO wobbled slightly in the stuffed plastic, and came to rest leaning on the wall. "I broke your Nordic Track!" he wailed.

"What's with the getup?"

"I figure this has to be some kind of airborne biological counterattack from Hezbollah," he says.

"Isn't it kinda hot in all that?" I ask, noting the clear plastic face shield completely fogged over.

"No," he replies sniffling, still leaning awkwardly against the wall. "It's actually pretty comfortable."

"What happened to all my silverwear?"

"I disposed of it. And the food. So's we wouldn't be tempted and die of helplessly-clogged arteries and heart attacks."

I sigh. "So how am I supposed to cut my pizza?"

"You're not," he says. "Aren't you listening?"

"Where are the scissors?"

"You can't use scissors to cut pizza," he insists. "That's disgusting."

I open a drawer in a desk and there the scissors are. "I'll be in the kitchen if you get hungry."


***

So I cut the pizza up into four, and come back chewing on a slice. LOBO is still standing against the wall, breathing heavily. He sees me and says "That is so unsanitary."

"Look," I says chewing. "This pizza is soooooo good," I says taunting him as I chew with my mouth open. "Mmmmmmm--"

LOBO gags. "I can't believe you cut it with something I use to trim my pubes."

I freeze in mid-chew.

After what seems like minutes, the half-chewed pizza falls out of my open mouth onto the rug.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!" I scream. Holding the scissors in the air, I rush the bloated, immobile asshole.

LOBO screams, flailing his stiff arms helplessly.

"You've ruined my life!" I snarl, swinging wildly. My first stab tears off the yellow plastic mask, and underneath, LOBO is wearing a gas mask and a novelty drinking hat. Both barrels loaded with Diet Pepsi, and little tubes run down and underneath the black rubber.

"Look everyone!" I laugh madly, pulling the mask and letting it smack back hard against his face. "It's the Megiddo Misquito!" Another slash, and the secrets of LOBO's cool comfort come pouring out; my frozen chicken, my frozen waffles. My ice cream. He was wearing crisscrossed makeshift bandoliers of frozen Snickers, Mars bars, and Three Musketeers.

Stabbing someone to death isn't going to look good on my resume, either. So I switched to my golf clubs. My titanium Callaway driver sunk into my pot pie with a sickening thud, cracked into my bag of mixed vegetables. It was all I could do to cling to some thread of sanity; in a final burst of inspired mercy, I wheeled LOBO's lumpy, wobbly ass out the door, and slammed and locked it. LOBO shrieked as one of the dogs gnawed into the two pounds of ground beef he had stashed in his underwear ...

A Mind is a Terrible Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I wholly agree with Ethan's disdain for people that don’t read.

Why make your own mistakes, when throughout history there have been hundreds of perfectly good dumb people, doing thousands of dumb things?

You should never, for instance, call King Henry the Eighth an impotent limp-dick. Or call George Bush Senior the ‘wimp president’. Don’t go to Mel Gibson's house to show off your new spiffy new dradle. Don't commit crimes and atrocities unless you can have a political entity or corporation do it for you. Don't watch the last episode of Mash [*spoiler alert* Henry dies and Winchester doesn't. Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!]. And, above all, never ever ever send your navy after Japan during typhoon season, or whenever Godzilla is pissed off.

Simple really.

My favorite example is this guy Isaac Newtron. Forty or fifty years ago, this guy did some crazy math and it really improved our ability to do bank shots playing pool and shoot at each other. When asked about his nerdy and weird math stuff, he says “If I’ve seen further than others, it is because I’ve stood on the shoulders of giants.”

See? Now that’s a thinking man’s thinking man. Let the fucking giants do the work. Just chill out. Giants are pretty mellow overall, as long as they’re not cyclopses.

Cyclopses are assholes.

All Pressed Up

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I didn't take it personally.

But when I saw the headlines of The Washington Post, it made me really mad.

"LOBO=DUMBASS" was not only a personal and unprofessional dig, but I felt it was an insult to all of our millions and millions of readers around the globe.

And to our readers in other countries, too.

Woe to thee, Washington Post, a once great and creditable resource of information ... how far the mighty have fallen, to stoop to the level of pandering mere tawdry tabloids, pig-piling onto Predator Press with that other Wall-thingy newspaper's tripe!

I tried to book a flight to Seattle so's I could kick your ass good and proper, but the ticket agent --obviously a reader of your slanderous filth and boldfaced lies--mocked me, insisting it was the wrong Washington. As if with only 52 states, they would name two of them the same thing!? This asshole has obviously greatly misjudged my brutal, insatiable wrath and enormous, radiant brainiosity, and I'm reluctant to have such an inferior intellect handling my travel plans.

But fear not, o loyal reader ... ultimately, I outsmarted him.

I booked a flight to Spokane instead.

And just so you know how serious I really am, I just bought the super giant colossal diesel-powered Neopet 3000 --the Urban Assault model-- custom-fitted with stainless steel flesh-ripping teeth, rocket launchers, lethal poison-tipped claws, several fine mesh screens to squeeze your wet, sloppy vital organs through, and the optional cup holder. It's going to rip your terrified eyeballs out through your panic-stricken armpits!

... It sure seemed a lot bigger in the pictures, though ...

Predator Press Review: The Wall Street Journal

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This is far and away the worst stupid thing I've ever read. And the people the read this stupid thing are just as stupid as the stupid people that write the stupid thing.

I've left eighteen messages, but Tim Annet won't return my calls so I can challenge him to a death match on Pay-Per-View.

So Tim Annet is stupid, and he's a yellow chicken.

This stupid paper doesn't even have any pictures! And it's all boring stuff nobody cares about ... it's all "Microsoft this" and "Beirut that", and "The Ayatollah declared war today", blah blah blah.

Oh, it's on, bitches ... Predator Press could kick your stupid asses any day of the week.

... Stupid.

Triage

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

So drifting in the velvety Vicodin fog, I stare at the gigantic, bulbous marshmallows at the end of my suspended legs. What used to be simple feet are now giant pale balloons, and I worry of being lifted off of the bed and drifting upside-down toward the ceiling.

To ensure this doesn't happen, Edward is sitting at the foot of the bed reading The Wall Street Journal.

He's shaking his head.

"Where's LOBO?" I ask.

Edward looks up, startled. "Good morning," he says, smiling.

"Where's LOBO?" I repeat.

"I'm not sure exactly. He disappeared shortly after your surgery."

"Where are we?" I ask, blearily looking around the room.

"Pianosa Emergency Center," replied Edward.

That explains LOBO's absence really. LOBO, a veritable life-support system for mobile disaster, was on a first name basis with everyone here. I vaguely remember their surprise when it wasn't him being checked in again.

The idiot probably had his own wing by now.

"I've got some bad news," says Edward.

I dreamily look up at the gargantuan bowling balls of white gauze that were once my feet, and laugh. "Oh, what now?"

He shows me the cover of the Wall Street Journal.

The headline reads:

PREDATOR PRESS DEEMED
WORST PUBLICATION IN THE WORLD

"Jesus Christ!" I says, grabbing the paper.

Fighting the fuzzy feeling of the potent drugs, my comprehension was pretty sketchy. I read Tim Annet's article, just dripping acidic quotes like:

" ... worst group of foul-mouthed pedantic pinheads to ever dare call themselves 'journalists' ... ", and

" ... couldn't even finish because I was sticking knives in my eyes to stop the inane drivel from penetrating my skull ... "

"Oh sweet Jesus," I says, flapping the paper in my lap.

Just then, LOBO burst into the room.

"Guys! You're not going to believe this!" he says beaming.

My stomach sinks in quiet dread.

"We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"

"We know, LOBO," says Edward.

LOBO pauses, confused. "Did someone die?"

"No, you moron!" I snarl. "That article is eviscerating! We're ruined!"

Again, LOBO paused. "You did read the part about the guy sticking knives in his eyes, right?"

We nodded.

LOBO, completely undeterred, waves his arms wildly in the air.

"C'mon guys" he insists. "We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"

Prodigy

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Napoleon, in full non-Napoleonic attire, was just getting back when I woke.

I decided, last night, that it would just be safer and more convenient to keep an eye on them from my place. The roommate thing hasn't really turned up anything so far, so it wasn't like I didn't have the space. So I gave Napoleon the extra bedroom, and went into the basement to clear out a spot for the other lunatic.

Luckily, I found a nasty old flea-ridden dog bed that has been there since I moved in.

Hearing the sounds of glass breaking, LOBO followed me down. He already had his footie Gi Joe pajamas on, and was gingerly toting a mug of hot chocolate.

"No marshmallows?"

"No," I says, sprinkling salt everywhere. "Now try not to break any more of this glass lying around. It's very valuable."

"Gotcha," he says, alternating the hot mug in his hands. "This'll be just like when we went camping in Chicago."

"Yes," I says absently as I climb the cobwebby stairs. "Minus the shooting," I add hopefully. When in Chicago, we got four parking tickets at $120 bucks apiece because of some snafu in parking permit paperwork. For once, LOBO and I were in complete agreement: the City of Chicago was a bloodsucking parasite, greedily feasting upon its hapless denizens.

While we inevitably had to pay the $480 in fines eventually, we did so with the peace of mind of knowing we had ruthlessly doled out at least $48,000 worth of vandalism, theft, and various other acts of healthy, righteous payback.

You know how mile marker '69' keeps disappearing?

That's us.

It was pointless, yet not somehow; we were "canceling out" whatever benefits this faceless evil enjoyed from this criminal exploitation, and then some. It was almost noble in a way, and it gave us a weird, visceral satisfaction. Fighting tyranny by playing a less-than-zero sum game. To this day, LOBO parks diagonally across three parking spaces, smashing the meter with his bumper, and is disappointed if the colorful paper under the windshield wiper is merely a flyer or a restaurant menu.

"Thank you," LOBO called up after me from the damp and dusty oppressive gloom.

"You're welcome, now go to sleep!" I yelled.

So, as I was saying, Napoleon walks into the kitchen this morning hauling two huge grocery bags as I'm blearily following the smell of brewing coffee. I'm in a bathrobe still, barefoot. Meanwhile, Napoleon is wearing a custom-fitted gray suit, complete with a thin red tie and expensive looking cufflinks. He looks like he's straight off of Wall Street.

And with the groceries in tow, he makes one of the best breakfasts I've ever had. Sausage. Bacon. Eggs florentine. Expresso. Real butter, and milk and cream tasting like the cow was right outside. When Napoleon is distracted, I sneak a peek at the receipts, bundled tightly around a credit card and sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. The breakfast ran an impressive $110. The suit was an even more impressive $760 after the alterations, and the Bruno Mali shoes a mere pittance at $280.

The credit card was a VISA Platinum.

And the name on it was Edward R. Harrows, PhD.


***

"You don't need to do that, uh, Napoleon" I says to him as he sets out a third place-setting for the vast breakfast spread. "He'll wake up and head straight for the Frosted Flakes."

"Please call me Edward," says Napoleon. "LOBO won't eat a hot breakfast?"

"Firstly, it has spinach in it. Secondly, he's saving box tops for a microscope."

Edward scowled slightly. "Do cereal companies still do that kind of thing?"

"Who knows?" I says.

"When does he get up?"

"Noonish."

"Well, he's on his own then."

I cave into my curiosity. "Edward, eh?" I ask cautiously. This guy is a mental patient after all. For all I know, the real 'Doctor Harrows' is being hauled out of a ditch by police and cadaver dogs this very moment.

"Yes," Edward replies. He has a deep, captivating baritone voice, pleasant to listen to. He could do movie narratives. "The 'Napoleon' thing keeps my wife down to two visits a month."

"Huh," I says.

We eat breakfast in a quiet solitude rarely enjoyed in LOBO's presence. I'm on my third scotch, working up my courage, when LOBO emerges, holding his balls through his PJs, dancing from foot to foot. He looks alternately at a pack of cigarettes, the box of Frosted Flakes, and the bathroom door, frantic and confused.

"I would recommend the bathroom first," I says.

"Yes," he says, relieved as he scurries off.

Edward was on the couch reading quietly. He had read Chuck Palahniuk's Choke in it's entirety overnight, and was just starting Haunted. After a few minutes, he sets the book down in his lap and massages the top of his nose, under where his glasses settle. "This is the second book in a row where by page twelve people are sticking things up their butts," he says finally. "What is it with white Pop Culture?"

"Beats me," I says as LOBO emerges again.

To LOBO I says, "Did you wash your hands?"

He proudly displays his palms to me. "I'm running a bath now too," he says.

"Good," I reply.

"I found your birth certificate in a box down there. Did you know your middle name is Chainsaw?"

"Yes I did. And I would appreciate you minding your own fucking business from now on."

Another scotch, and I'm ready.

To Edward, "So the whole 'Napoleon' thing is an act?"

"Yes," Edward says as sets the book down again.

"But acting like Napoleon is crazy," I says.

"I'd be crazy not to," says Edward.

"Is that how you ended up in the asylum?"

"No. I'm in for substance abuse."

A card carrying multiple personality-addled drug addict. Peachy.

"It's a long story," says Edward.


***

The Harrows family had it all.

According to Edward, James Harrows, Edward's great-great grandfather, had invented the vulcanization of rubber, but was mugged by Charles Goodyear on the way to the patent office. Goodyear, late for a Klan rally, failed to rub his fingerprints off of the baseball bat, and the forensic evidence would bear this out to be factual many years later. Goodyear, now a multi-billion dollar company, was forced to offer an out-of-court settlement of eighteen bucks to the Harrow family by a white jury reluctant to go changing a lot of rather inconvenient history books.

Plus retroactive interest.

This made for quite a bit of money.

The Harrows, for generations, have subsequently been millionaires. Edward, never having worked a day in his life, was a top 5% Yale graduate, having received his PhD in music theory in 1994.

And then he puttered around Julliard for another two years, perfecting the mastery over his chosen instrument. Before long, he was one of the most widely-sought after triangle players in the world.

When he played with the London Symphony Orchestra, people eight rows deep wept at his predanatural gift. Journalists in dozens of languages decried that Edward must have made a deal with Satan himself to chime with such innate and mesmerizing talent. In his heyday, it was calculated by Forbes Magazine that he was flown all over the globe to chime for kings and queens at a rate of roughly $600,000 per heart-wrenching ting.

He then met his true love, Bethany Anne Bellefonte; before long the loving pair were married and proud parents of two beautiful children, Alicia and Carlton.

And it was at Carlton's first birthday party that things went so terribly awry.

Bethany decided she wanted the kind of party suitable for their elevated social stature. The petting zoo, the clowns, the works. And she wanted a sheik retro theme, complete with aerosol cans of Silly String and big bowls of giant Jawbreakers.

And Pop Rocks.

Edward, beguiled by the colorful packaging, ate a packet of orange Pop Rocks while he was setting up the party. He ate two packets of grape while the clowns made balloon animals.

By the end of the day, he had consumed thirty-four packets. Fresh out, he shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands, paying the extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because he couldn't pick them up at the warehouse tonight.

Four months later, when he crashed his 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.

Bethany, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to Edward's rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted him, and Edward swore he would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But that very night, she woke him screaming that she couldn't sleep because he was crackling so loud. Days later, a perfunctory cleaning in the bathroom by the maid revealed Edward's stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.

Bethany packed up the kids and left him to the inevitable ruin that was to follow.

Edward's music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum bum ting" would come out "bum bum-ting-bum". The surgical precision required to hit a triangle with just the right force seemed to escape him, and it was either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. And the sound engineers never seemed to be able to identify and fix the mysterious sizzling static Edward's microphone would constantly seem to emulate.

Soon, he would show up late for symphony performances, play his single note, and then leave immediately --before the end of the show-- in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the single note on page 98, he would sleep through shows, missing his cue completely. Once, he accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music by accident and played the whole concert like it was dinnertime at the chuck wagon, earning him a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw. But his downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and he was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.

His hygiene suffered, and his flesh seethed and bubbled visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.

Six months later, a guilt-ridden Bethany tracked him to a cheap motel room. Unemployed, Edward was pouring a packet of Pop Rocks into a spoon, tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, Edward had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.

"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Bethany.

"Nonsense," replied Edward, twisting the thick rubber band over his elbow. "I can quit anytime I want."

"I knew you would say that," says Bethany. "That's why I brought these people from Bertram."

Six big guys in white outfits entered the room. Each opened a straight jacket, a chain, some unrecognizable restraining gadget, a syringe.

"I don't need a goddamned intervention!" Edward screamed through purple teeth.

Then, blammo.


***

"Blammo?" asks LOBO, chewing loudly.

"Yes," says Edward. "Distracted by everybody, I accidentally touched the Pop Rocks in the spoon to the open flame. Bethany Anne Bellefonte-Harrows and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast. But the six orderlies and the rest of the entire floor of the motel were blown to smithereens. Hence, 'Napoleon'. It was either that or face eleven counts of reckless homicide."

Suddenly, the lights went out.

In the ensuing quiet, we could hear the bathtub running.

"Fuck!" I says. "Goddamnit LOBO, you left the tub running!"

LOBO offered me a painful Frosted Flake-riddled smile as he ran for the bathroom.

"I'm sure the water just tripped the circuit breaker," offered Edward.

I ran downstairs to flip the circuit breaker switch, and screamed when I hit the salted glass.