[LOBO]
Sunday
Sex Offender
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"How come you haven't been going to work?" asks Barbarossa. "Did you get fired already?"
"No." I reply. "The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex closed down. Everyone is dead. I would be too if I hadn't called off sick my first day."
"What happened?"
"Apparently they tried my suggestion of using ionized water. This created the unexpected result of Spanish Fly that actually worked. What ensued was the most fantastic HAZMAT situation in history, and within two hours everyone died from severe trauma to the pelvis."
Barbarossa stares.
"I still get a check in the mail every two weeks," I shrug.
"Cool!"
[LOBO]
"How come you haven't been going to work?" asks Barbarossa. "Did you get fired already?"
"No." I reply. "The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex closed down. Everyone is dead. I would be too if I hadn't called off sick my first day."
"What happened?"
"Apparently they tried my suggestion of using ionized water. This created the unexpected result of Spanish Fly that actually worked. What ensued was the most fantastic HAZMAT situation in history, and within two hours everyone died from severe trauma to the pelvis."
Barbarossa stares.
"I still get a check in the mail every two weeks," I shrug.
"Cool!"
Friday
Monday
Obama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“For a guy that got the job,” says Barbarossa, “you sure don’t look very happy about it.”
“Nah I’m fine,” I says, checking my mirrors. “It‘s just weird. Nobody has passed that test in 30 years. Doctor Yakamoto died in 2006. So everybody has gotta pull on my hair to see if it’s a wig.”
“So it’s the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex, huh? What do they make?”
Watching the road, I didn’t realize he wasn’t kidding.
“Spanish Fly,” I say finally, migraine already creeping in.
“Wow,” says Barbarossa, staring vacantly into the rolling scenery. “Do the Japanese make American ones too? Or are those shipped to Japan? And who makes the flies for the Spaniards?”
Idiot.
“Spanish Fly is a drink that supposedly makes women, ah, amorous.”
“Will it work on Agatha?”
I stare. “No. You should stick to something traditional like Wild Turkey.”
“But that’s because you think Agatha is a guy. And if Agatha is a guy, I would be gay. And I’m not gay.”
“Have you had sex yet?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” he explains. “She’s saving herself for marriage.”
I scowl as all the car's cylinders rise willingly to the sudden burst of speed request at my toe. “Barbarossa, if you say one more goddamn thing I’ll jump the median and kill us both.”
He's like having a conversation with a rock that has learning disabilities. And true to form, he get a few miles before he forgets.
“They’re gonna miss you at the warehouse,” he says.
“Yeah,” I sigh happily, relaxing my toe. “And I wanted to talk about that. You’ll probably end up with my old job if you play your cards right.”
“I’ll have to if me and Agatha are going to raise a family.”
Picking my battles, I let that slide. Rubbing my chin, I choose words carefully. “A car, good job, steady,” I wince painfully. “-girlfriend," I blurt. “You’ve come a long way. “And I’m proud of you. Sort of. I’m taking you off of Probation.”
“Fucking awesome,” he beams. “Hey. Will you tell me what that big red button you threatened me with did?”
“It wasn’t hooked up to anything,” I confess nervously. “It didn’t need to be. Your imagination was infinitely worse than any nightmarish device I could devise.”
“I’ll say,” Barbarossa agrees, eyebrows arched high. “I started wetting the bed last September.” Still staring at the scenery, he adds, “How come we don’t put Spanish Fly in the water supply? We would probably get medals or something.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” I says, scowling. “It turns out Spanish Fly doesn’t work. All it probably does is give a guy some confidence.”
Barbarossa nods slowly. “But what if he’s an asshole?”
“Well, let’s face it,” I says, turning down Barbarossa’s street. “The guy who is going to slip this into someone’s drink for sex is a moral level of scumbag just inches from using roofies or whatever in the first place.”
“Do you get an employee discount?”
“Hell yeah,” I grin. “40 percent off!”
[LOBO]
“For a guy that got the job,” says Barbarossa, “you sure don’t look very happy about it.”
“Nah I’m fine,” I says, checking my mirrors. “It‘s just weird. Nobody has passed that test in 30 years. Doctor Yakamoto died in 2006. So everybody has gotta pull on my hair to see if it’s a wig.”
“So it’s the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex, huh? What do they make?”
Watching the road, I didn’t realize he wasn’t kidding.
“Spanish Fly,” I say finally, migraine already creeping in.
“Wow,” says Barbarossa, staring vacantly into the rolling scenery. “Do the Japanese make American ones too? Or are those shipped to Japan? And who makes the flies for the Spaniards?”
Idiot.
“Spanish Fly is a drink that supposedly makes women, ah, amorous.”
“Will it work on Agatha?”
I stare. “No. You should stick to something traditional like Wild Turkey.”
“But that’s because you think Agatha is a guy. And if Agatha is a guy, I would be gay. And I’m not gay.”“Have you had sex yet?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” he explains. “She’s saving herself for marriage.”
I scowl as all the car's cylinders rise willingly to the sudden burst of speed request at my toe. “Barbarossa, if you say one more goddamn thing I’ll jump the median and kill us both.”
He's like having a conversation with a rock that has learning disabilities. And true to form, he get a few miles before he forgets.
“They’re gonna miss you at the warehouse,” he says.
“Yeah,” I sigh happily, relaxing my toe. “And I wanted to talk about that. You’ll probably end up with my old job if you play your cards right.”
“I’ll have to if me and Agatha are going to raise a family.”
Picking my battles, I let that slide. Rubbing my chin, I choose words carefully. “A car, good job, steady,” I wince painfully. “-girlfriend," I blurt. “You’ve come a long way. “And I’m proud of you. Sort of. I’m taking you off of Probation.”
“Fucking awesome,” he beams. “Hey. Will you tell me what that big red button you threatened me with did?”
“It wasn’t hooked up to anything,” I confess nervously. “It didn’t need to be. Your imagination was infinitely worse than any nightmarish device I could devise.”
“I’ll say,” Barbarossa agrees, eyebrows arched high. “I started wetting the bed last September.” Still staring at the scenery, he adds, “How come we don’t put Spanish Fly in the water supply? We would probably get medals or something.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” I says, scowling. “It turns out Spanish Fly doesn’t work. All it probably does is give a guy some confidence.”
Barbarossa nods slowly. “But what if he’s an asshole?”
“Well, let’s face it,” I says, turning down Barbarossa’s street. “The guy who is going to slip this into someone’s drink for sex is a moral level of scumbag just inches from using roofies or whatever in the first place.”
“Do you get an employee discount?”
“Hell yeah,” I grin. “40 percent off!”
Sunday
How I Got the Job
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Why Fate wrought such war upon me over the last few years isn’t clear, but I sense She grows weary of our struggle.
Little by little, the black tide abates.
Pondering this vaguely, I punch in the supplied keycode by the glass doors of the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex. Exactly on time, I am surprised to find a clean, sparse room. Interestingly, the door I came in is the only entrance or exit.
There is no access to the rest of the building from here.
A fake entrance?
As for signs of human occupation –or even utility- there is little. No telephone. All there is is a combination VCR and television sitting on a collapsible card table. “PRESS PLAY” is printed neatly in likely the black marker on a well-aged index card, and taped by the VCR controls. Three small vials of differently colored fluids, a clear, a white, and a blue, numbered 1-3 in black marker, are standing in a wire display frame.
My name -printed in the similar blocky black Sharpie fashion- on a large new yellow envelope squarely in front of the chair. An ”old school” computer –replete with a green hued fishbowl monitor and a "c-prompt"- hums audibly, and the cursor flashes with infinite and eerie patience.
A vacuum with a hose attachment in the corner grants me a bonus observations; while most horizontal surfaces in the room have a thin layer of dust, the desk and surrounding area is meticulously clean.
Perhaps glaring in the room’s utter sparseness, a subtle camera is fixed in the upper southeast corner.
It, too, is dustless.
The manila envelope contains only a folder bearing my name.
But it’s empty.
Sitting, I reach to the “Play” button, hesitating. There is something about this moment that makes me a sense that, for better or for worse, there is no returning back from this moment. Maybe good ‘ole Fate is easing Her wrath finally.
-Or maybe She’s been playing a ‘Rope-a-Dope’ strategy on my this whole time, and this will be a nice kidney shot just to remind me She’s been thinking about me quite a bit.
The button on the hopelessly antiquated machine clunks under my finger, and the screen flickers as it whines to life. A grainy black and white SFIC company logo is accompanied by a sickening, tinny music that seems to oscillate at wrong speeds, and odd light and dark shapes dance and disappear like ghosts across the screen.
A man in a white lab coat enters the frame and bows stiffly.
“Welcome to the Spanish Fry Induslial Comprex Perspective Employee. I am Doctor Kim Yakamoto, and I will be conducting this intervliew.”
-The words ‘perspective employee’ were dubbed in by another voice. Perfect English. Corporate efficiency, or did the good Doctor Yamamoto just butcher the language too much?
”Thank you for your intelest in the Chemical Taster position. Preese enter the keycode number you were suppried with into the computer.”
I enter the six digits at the prompt. As, eh 'prompted.' The computer’s fan whirs to life, and after an exaggerated pause, a screen with my name on it.
“Preese anaryze-“ Doctor Yamamoto continues is a static addled, warbling voice, “chemicals one, two and thlee, and enter your commentary into the computer. Leave this tape lunning, and I rill tell you when to stop. The test will automaticary save at this point. Begin.”
Vial 1 is clear.
“Vial 1 is tap water,” I enter. “De-ionized water is better for industrial use. The ph level you’re using with this filtrated city water could contaminate your results.”
Vail 2, white, on the other hand, is far less subtle.
“Vail 2 is obviously milk that expired in the middle of last month, and sour. Blech.”
Vial 3, blue, poses somewhat more of a mystery. Standing, I view it through the overhead lights. Thicker than the others, almost like watery dishwashing liquid. The visual inspection yields little else. And suddenly facing the prospect that I need to open it, I’m unsure.
What am I opening here?
“Fuck that,” I says, thinking aloud. For all I know this could be Sarin gas or something. There must be some other way to ...
My eyes fall to the vacuum cleaner.I draw a line in the dust on top of the computer, and examine my fingertip.
-And ever so gingerly, I return the blue vial to it’s cradle. And sitting back down, I type in simply:
"Is Vial 3 the stuff that makes your hair fall out?"
The screen goes blank.
”Time is up,” says Doctor Yamamoto.”Once again, thank you for your interest in the Chemical Taster position. We will review your results and contact you with our decision within 24 hours.”
Saturday
Friday
Sugar Plum
Predator Press
[LOBO]
eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.
“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”
And Jeremy was fine with that.
-He didn’t much like talking anyway.
One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.
Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.
“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.
Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.
The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.
Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Warm.
Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.
“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”
“She quit?”
“Claimed she was insulted.”
Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”
“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.
The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”
Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.
“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.
“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.
“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.
Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.
“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”
Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”
Both cringed in silence.
Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.
The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.
“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.
“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”
In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.
“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”
[LOBO]
eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”
And Jeremy was fine with that.
-He didn’t much like talking anyway.
One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.
Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.
“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.
Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.
The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.
Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Warm.
Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.
“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”
“She quit?”
“Claimed she was insulted.”
Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”
“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.
The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”
Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.
“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.
“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.
“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.
Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.
“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”
Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”
Both cringed in silence.
Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.
The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.
“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.
“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”
In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.
“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”
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