Predator Press
The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.
Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.
In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well,
serene.
“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.
Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.
“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip
and a Blood.”
“You’ve only been in here two hours.”
“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is
everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"
Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.
“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”
“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.
“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”
“Well then how would you-?”
“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”
Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.
“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.
“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”
“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”
-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”
Silence.
“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”
"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”
The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.
“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”
“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With
real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”
“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”
“Ever had
Grape Nuts?”
“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."
“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape
or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”
“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”
“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”
“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”
“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.
“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”
[LOBO]
But because I kinda look healthy (I cut my wrist cast off yesterday too), I’m confusing people: a random spasm might find me inexplicably offering counter-crossing pedestrians the look a cow gives you as you pull up to a fine steak restaurant. Cops, misinterpreting my tender pain-addled gait, circle constantly suspecting I am drunk ... or maybe tryin to protect me from a mullet-sporting vintage Camaro driver with a glove box full of Viagra, roofies, and rolls and rolls of duct tape.
Either way I'm compelled to admit I am completely toxic with pain medications. Prior to the back surgery, I shrewdly purchased a handful of used PS2 and Xbox games for my convalescing amusement. Currently I have no idea where they are.
