The Concrete Ceiling

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Three weeks ago I requisitioned 100 Q-Tips and this morning I received, on official and spiff Predator Press stationary, the rejection letter.  Evidently a minimum of three contract bids are required.

So I either need to triple the money I make, or reduce bills below the excruciating level I live at now.  And with the American economy obviously flagging -and apparently dragging the LOBOnian down as well- I'm probably being more realistic addressing the latter at the moment.  But what am I supposed to do?  Cut High Definition out of my cable bill and watch football like poor people?

Why in America is it so hard to find an affordable modest, clean, crime-free apartment adjacent to an Emergency Room with a helicopter pad?

Ask LOBO

Predator Press

"Dear LOBO,

I'm growing increasingly concerned my husband doesn't find me attractive anymore, and I'm starting to catch his 'wandering eye' with greater and greater frequency. Can you give me some advice that might spice up our romance?"

Kelly L. Bittencroft
865 Palm Palace
Tampa, Florida 33610
VISA #5194-5559-5555
Exp Date 01/15
Birthday 01/05/85
PIN:VISA

Kelly,

It's a widely-known fact that chicks pack on the pounds as a passive-aggressive hostile act toward their spouses, and nothing is more humiliating to a guy than a having a fat chick in tow. As an ironic consequence, however, this displaced anger exacerbates the cycling negative behaviors between you and your significant other; it leaves you a bitter old dried-up hippopotamus woman with drawn-on eyebrows, well-calloused bristling elbows, and gnarled toenails that snag in carpets and clicketty-clack on linoleum kitchen tiles when you walk barefoot.

First, set down the Chunky Monkey; it will only degrade your health and make you a further embarrassment to your friends, family and loved ones. Then, abandon the concept of 'spicing up your romance' entirely. Try fully embracing your mutual hatred instead.

Go shopping! Buy an entire case of Glade aerosol spray and a nice big fat insurance policy on your husband; the air freshener will be necessary to get the smell of molten flesh, hair, and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the house when you throw the radio into his bathwater. Think of the flickering, failing lights as your fading once-youthful vibrant beauty -all of which you've squandered on this hairy, bloated, unemployed redneck. Take solace in the fact that over a long enough timeline he would have left you -an utterly spent and decaying husk, oozing the desiccated viscera of unanswered dreams and unrequited passion- for a snaggletoothed bartender with a teardrop tattoo and an obsession for Beanie Babies.

Sell the house and the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates -especially the Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates- and combine it with the insurance money. This should be plenty to start your life over someplace in South America. Splurge for a well-muscled pool boy named Chavo, and indulge in what will now be a moderately-priced cocaine habit to melt those extra pounds away. And as far as repairing your mortally-wounded self-esteem, the only healthy way is in the hands of a professional physician trained in such delicate matters: with a good plastic surgeon, you'll make Mr. Potato head look like a ranked amateur hack in a matter of weeks. This will also aid in throwing the Authorities off of your trail.

Above all else Kelly, remember: relationships are a piece of cake, but you can't make anyone else happy if you're not happy yourself.

I've Given Myself the Heebie-Jeebies

Predator Press

[LOBO]

How often do I write straight-up fiction?  A few times a year?

-The Aurora Massacre occurred within two hours of my completion of "The Reaper Grim," my take on the role of the big GR himself.  And I'm not really a Batman fan either, yet there's recent Bat-saturation on this blog.

This post was supposed to be about World Peace btw.  But my flight to Vegas leaves in an hour.  I'm very, very busy.

"With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility."

The Reaper Grim

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Occasionally my job takes me downstate.

And I don't really mind.  When time permits, I'll even take the back roads instead of I-57. While from the map it looks a boring plaid, the corn farmers plant lavender on the roadsides; you can see the purple-edged road wind over mild hills almost to the horizon. Last week a crop duster "buzzed" me -I was both exhilarated and terrified frankly.  I thought he was crashing.

Inspired by the weather, I took my motorcycle this time.  It's a respectable 929cc crotch rocket I acquired recently during an intersection of "bargain" and "random circumstance" instead of personal taste.

But this is exactly what brought on my encounter with the rider in black.

Male presumably.  But this rider is always so thoroughly covered in black leather and high-tech looking protective gear, I couldn't tell you the color of his skin.  The bike, also completely black, is a make I don't recognize despite numerous attempts.  It is enviously cool.  This driver's signature, however, is that he usually blows by me at some freakish speed right around the same time and same place every day.

But today he slips into the lane beside me and revs his engine twice.

I rev back.

Race.

He gives universal "watch for cops" hand signals, and counts down from three with his fingers.

-And he is gone.  A spec on the horizon.

I grin as I rip through my own gears in pursuit.  As the engine roars underneath me, and I am lost in the road completely.  A glance at the speedometer has me at 156 miles an hour, however even that slight nod has my sunglasses being ripped from my face by the wind.  Miraculously I catch them, and as I struggle them back to my nose I smell and taste melting steel, smoke, and rubber -while being pelted with a painful mist of particulate matter.

Shrapnel.

The rider in black had crashed ahead.

-And I was screaming up on the accident scene.

I was so close behind him the debris field was still spreading.  The combine and the two cars involved in the accident were still lurching to a stop as I weaved through the macabre event still taking place untouched, almost as if I were a rumor or a ghost; someone deaf who had blinked would never have known I was ever there at all.

As for the driver, what I caught a glance of I hope to soon forget.

At least until I go to work tomorrow.

I Have Decided to Join a Secret Society

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know! Isn’t that cool? Now when people see me, they will whisper stuff like:

”Psst ... isn’t that LOBO?”

”That really handsome dude wrestling the grizzly bear?”

“Yes. I heard he is a member of a secret society!”

Man, I am jazzed about joining too. Ever since George Bush Junior got his big break from ‘Skull and Bones,’ all the other cool people are doing it: Kipling had the ‘Freemasons,’ Doctor Tundra has ‘The Cult of the Claw,’ and Charles Watson had the Manson Family -ah the list just goes on and on.

Which one should I join? I don’t know yet. In fact the afore mentioned list pretty much sums up all the secret societies I’m aware of -and by virtue of me being aware of them, these particular societies don't seem very good at keeping themselves secret. And what kind of business model is that?

What I need is a secret society where the members themselves don’t know I’m in it. Even better, so secret even I don’t know if I’m in it ... kinda like the one I have going with actor Michael Dorn and whoever the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers is. Whenever Michael Dorn, the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I cross paths we exchange a series of knowing looks. Mind you I have no idea what Michael Dorn and the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers might be up to at the time, but I’m with them 100% whatever it is.

So technically, I suppose, I’m already a member of a secret society; I’ll have to ensure my new one doesn’t have a conflict of interest –or worse, a redundancy- of my first. Secret society juggling can be a tricky endeavor when you don’t know what either secret society is doing ... probably my best bet is to lure the current guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers into a secret society of our own, within the other secret society.

-I don’t know about you, but Michael Dorn plays a Klingon a little too good.

Know what I mean?

The Final Cut

or, "I Have a Dream ... Somewhere."

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When the spot on your body that hurts the least has a pallet splinter in it, I suppose it's time one examines one's past decisions. Now couple that with working under a tin roof in triple digit weather for a third the pay I made three years ago, and realize I could spend decades assigning blame for that too.

Meh, screw it. Maybe I'll go back to school. I wanted to major in Philosophy, my first academic love, but before I graduated my guidance counselor freaked out. "At least major in Liberal Arts," he cried. "You'll never make a dime with a degree in Philosophy!"

Oh, the sweet irony.

-I should have that fucker killed.

If The Bat Wants To Play, We'll Play

Predator Press