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!”
