Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Look," says Nurse Garrison, lowering her clipboard and sighing audibly. "I'm going to have to tell the insurance company something."
"Tell them it's Cobe's fault," I reply simply.
She picks up her pen, and pushed her glasses back over her nose. "Who is Cobe?"
"He's a guy that I sent to straighten out all our operations in Antarctica last year."
"So this is his fault how?"
"Well, he's still in charge of the scheduling and catering of the Company Picnic." I tear up as I stare at the wool mittens over my hands. "He did this on purpose. What kind of sicko schedules a company picnic in November?"
"But it's a clear day, and 72 degrees outside," says Garrison. "I think the guy made some pretty good choices all things considered."
"That's exactly what Cobe would want you to think," I illustrate. "But he scheduled the date and the caterer both."
"So?"
"The caterer came with a clear agenda," I says. "He sets up and starts grilling chicken. I simply asked him from time to time if it was done yet."
Nurse Garrison moaned dubiously. "How many times did you ask him?"
"Thirty four," I says. "Finally he says Sure buddy. It's done now. Knock yourself out. He never tells me that the stuff on the grill is like searing hot."
"So he caused 3rd degree burns on your hands, " she scrawls. "Were you around when he made the potato salad?"
"Yes," I confess. "Why?"
"We'll have to check you for tapeworms too." She pauses. "Colonoscopy?"
"Three weeks ago," I reply, sullen.
"Well you're due," she says, checking a box. "At your age, you can't be too careful. Now why are you wearing those cheap wool mittens?"
"They were Ethan's idea," I says, inspecting them wincing. "But I sterilized my hands in boiling hydrochloric acid first like he told me."
"Ethan told you to sterilize your hands before going to the hospital by boiling them in hydrochloric acid while wearing wool mittens?"
"This happened at last year's picnic. He figured with an HMO, getting my leg pulled would cost essentially the same."
Tearing a bloody strip cautiously from the mitten she remarks, "Is that salted Brillo?"
"Yes. But this year I remembered not to try to grab French fries out of the grease," I proclaim. "I hate that smell."
