Predator Press
[LOBO]
I didn't take it personally.
But when I saw the headlines of The Washington Post, it made me really mad.
"LOBO=DUMBASS" was not only a personal and unprofessional dig, but I felt it was an insult to all of our millions and millions of readers around the globe.
And to our readers in other countries, too.
Woe to thee, Washington Post, a once great and creditable resource of information ... how far the mighty have fallen, to stoop to the level of pandering mere tawdry tabloids, pig-piling onto Predator Press with that other Wall-thingy newspaper's tripe!
I tried to book a flight to Seattle so's I could kick your ass good and proper, but the ticket agent --obviously a reader of your slanderous filth and boldfaced lies--mocked me, insisting it was the wrong Washington. As if with only 52 states, they would name two of them the same thing!? This asshole has obviously greatly misjudged my brutal, insatiable wrath and enormous, radiant brainiosity, and I'm reluctant to have such an inferior intellect handling my travel plans.
But fear not, o loyal reader ... ultimately, I outsmarted him.
I booked a flight to Spokane instead.
And just so you know how serious I really am, I just bought the super giant colossal diesel-powered Neopet 3000 --the Urban Assault model-- custom-fitted with stainless steel flesh-ripping teeth, rocket launchers, lethal poison-tipped claws, several fine mesh screens to squeeze your wet, sloppy vital organs through, and the optional cup holder. It's going to rip your terrified eyeballs out through your panic-stricken armpits!
... It sure seemed a lot bigger in the pictures, though ...
Monday
Predator Press Review: The Wall Street Journal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This is far and away the worst stupid thing I've ever read. And the people the read this stupid thing are just as stupid as the stupid people that write the stupid thing.
I've left eighteen messages, but Tim Annet won't return my calls so I can challenge him to a death match on Pay-Per-View.
So Tim Annet is stupid, and he's a yellow chicken.
This stupid paper doesn't even have any pictures! And it's all boring stuff nobody cares about ... it's all "Microsoft this" and "Beirut that", and "The Ayatollah declared war today", blah blah blah.
Oh, it's on, bitches ... Predator Press could kick your stupid asses any day of the week.
... Stupid.
[LOBO]
This is far and away the worst stupid thing I've ever read. And the people the read this stupid thing are just as stupid as the stupid people that write the stupid thing.
I've left eighteen messages, but Tim Annet won't return my calls so I can challenge him to a death match on Pay-Per-View.
So Tim Annet is stupid, and he's a yellow chicken.
This stupid paper doesn't even have any pictures! And it's all boring stuff nobody cares about ... it's all "Microsoft this" and "Beirut that", and "The Ayatollah declared war today", blah blah blah.
Oh, it's on, bitches ... Predator Press could kick your stupid asses any day of the week.
... Stupid.
Triage
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
So drifting in the velvety Vicodin fog, I stare at the gigantic, bulbous marshmallows at the end of my suspended legs. What used to be simple feet are now giant pale balloons, and I worry of being lifted off of the bed and drifting upside-down toward the ceiling.
To ensure this doesn't happen, Edward is sitting at the foot of the bed reading The Wall Street Journal.
He's shaking his head.
"Where's LOBO?" I ask.
Edward looks up, startled. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Where's LOBO?" I repeat.
"I'm not sure exactly. He disappeared shortly after your surgery."
"Where are we?" I ask, blearily looking around the room.
"Pianosa Emergency Center," replied Edward.
That explains LOBO's absence really. LOBO, a veritable life-support system for mobile disaster, was on a first name basis with everyone here. I vaguely remember their surprise when it wasn't him being checked in again.
The idiot probably had his own wing by now.
"I've got some bad news," says Edward.
I dreamily look up at the gargantuan bowling balls of white gauze that were once my feet, and laugh. "Oh, what now?"
He shows me the cover of the Wall Street Journal.
The headline reads:
PREDATOR PRESS DEEMED
WORST PUBLICATION IN THE WORLD
"Jesus Christ!" I says, grabbing the paper.
Fighting the fuzzy feeling of the potent drugs, my comprehension was pretty sketchy. I read Tim Annet's article, just dripping acidic quotes like:
" ... worst group of foul-mouthed pedantic pinheads to ever dare call themselves 'journalists' ... ", and
" ... couldn't even finish because I was sticking knives in my eyes to stop the inane drivel from penetrating my skull ... "
"Oh sweet Jesus," I says, flapping the paper in my lap.
Just then, LOBO burst into the room.
"Guys! You're not going to believe this!" he says beaming.
My stomach sinks in quiet dread.
"We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
"We know, LOBO," says Edward.
LOBO pauses, confused. "Did someone die?"
"No, you moron!" I snarl. "That article is eviscerating! We're ruined!"
Again, LOBO paused. "You did read the part about the guy sticking knives in his eyes, right?"
We nodded.
LOBO, completely undeterred, waves his arms wildly in the air.
"C'mon guys" he insists. "We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
[Mr. I]
So drifting in the velvety Vicodin fog, I stare at the gigantic, bulbous marshmallows at the end of my suspended legs. What used to be simple feet are now giant pale balloons, and I worry of being lifted off of the bed and drifting upside-down toward the ceiling.
To ensure this doesn't happen, Edward is sitting at the foot of the bed reading The Wall Street Journal.
He's shaking his head.
"Where's LOBO?" I ask.
Edward looks up, startled. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Where's LOBO?" I repeat.
"I'm not sure exactly. He disappeared shortly after your surgery."
"Where are we?" I ask, blearily looking around the room.
"Pianosa Emergency Center," replied Edward.
That explains LOBO's absence really. LOBO, a veritable life-support system for mobile disaster, was on a first name basis with everyone here. I vaguely remember their surprise when it wasn't him being checked in again.
The idiot probably had his own wing by now.
"I've got some bad news," says Edward.
I dreamily look up at the gargantuan bowling balls of white gauze that were once my feet, and laugh. "Oh, what now?"
He shows me the cover of the Wall Street Journal.
The headline reads:
WORST PUBLICATION IN THE WORLD
"Jesus Christ!" I says, grabbing the paper.
Fighting the fuzzy feeling of the potent drugs, my comprehension was pretty sketchy. I read Tim Annet's article, just dripping acidic quotes like:
" ... worst group of foul-mouthed pedantic pinheads to ever dare call themselves 'journalists' ... ", and
" ... couldn't even finish because I was sticking knives in my eyes to stop the inane drivel from penetrating my skull ... "
"Oh sweet Jesus," I says, flapping the paper in my lap.
Just then, LOBO burst into the room.
"Guys! You're not going to believe this!" he says beaming.
My stomach sinks in quiet dread.
"We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
"We know, LOBO," says Edward.
LOBO pauses, confused. "Did someone die?"
"No, you moron!" I snarl. "That article is eviscerating! We're ruined!"
Again, LOBO paused. "You did read the part about the guy sticking knives in his eyes, right?"
We nodded.
LOBO, completely undeterred, waves his arms wildly in the air.
"C'mon guys" he insists. "We're featured in the Wall Street Journal!"
Sunday
Prodigy
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Napoleon, in full non-Napoleonic attire, was just getting back when I woke.
I decided, last night, that it would just be safer and more convenient to keep an eye on them from my place. The roommate thing hasn't really turned up anything so far, so it wasn't like I didn't have the space. So I gave Napoleon the extra bedroom, and went into the basement to clear out a spot for the other lunatic.
Luckily, I found a nasty old flea-ridden dog bed that has been there since I moved in.
Hearing the sounds of glass breaking, LOBO followed me down. He already had his footie Gi Joe pajamas on, and was gingerly toting a mug of hot chocolate.
"No marshmallows?"
"No," I says, sprinkling salt everywhere. "Now try not to break any more of this glass lying around. It's very valuable."
"Gotcha," he says, alternating the hot mug in his hands. "This'll be just like when we went camping in Chicago."
"Yes," I says absently as I climb the cobwebby stairs. "Minus the shooting," I add hopefully. When in Chicago, we got four parking tickets at $120 bucks apiece because of some snafu in parking permit paperwork. For once, LOBO and I were in complete agreement: the City of Chicago was a bloodsucking parasite, greedily feasting upon its hapless denizens.
While we inevitably had to pay the $480 in fines eventually, we did so with the peace of mind of knowing we had ruthlessly doled out at least $48,000 worth of vandalism, theft, and various other acts of healthy, righteous payback.
You know how mile marker '69' keeps disappearing?
That's us.
It was pointless, yet not somehow; we were "canceling out" whatever benefits this faceless evil enjoyed from this criminal exploitation, and then some. It was almost noble in a way, and it gave us a weird, visceral satisfaction. Fighting tyranny by playing a less-than-zero sum game. To this day, LOBO parks diagonally across three parking spaces, smashing the meter with his bumper, and is disappointed if the colorful paper under the windshield wiper is merely a flyer or a restaurant menu.
"Thank you," LOBO called up after me from the damp and dusty oppressive gloom.
"You're welcome, now go to sleep!" I yelled.
So, as I was saying, Napoleon walks into the kitchen this morning hauling two huge grocery bags as I'm blearily following the smell of brewing coffee. I'm in a bathrobe still, barefoot. Meanwhile, Napoleon is wearing a custom-fitted gray suit, complete with a thin red tie and expensive looking cufflinks. He looks like he's straight off of Wall Street.
And with the groceries in tow, he makes one of the best breakfasts I've ever had. Sausage. Bacon. Eggs florentine. Expresso. Real butter, and milk and cream tasting like the cow was right outside. When Napoleon is distracted, I sneak a peek at the receipts, bundled tightly around a credit card and sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. The breakfast ran an impressive $110. The suit was an even more impressive $760 after the alterations, and the Bruno Mali shoes a mere pittance at $280.
The credit card was a VISA Platinum.
And the name on it was Edward R. Harrows, PhD.
***
"You don't need to do that, uh, Napoleon" I says to him as he sets out a third place-setting for the vast breakfast spread. "He'll wake up and head straight for the Frosted Flakes."
"Please call me Edward," says Napoleon. "LOBO won't eat a hot breakfast?"
"Firstly, it has spinach in it. Secondly, he's saving box tops for a microscope."
Edward scowled slightly. "Do cereal companies still do that kind of thing?"
"Who knows?" I says.
"When does he get up?"
"Noonish."
"Well, he's on his own then."
I cave into my curiosity. "Edward, eh?" I ask cautiously. This guy is a mental patient after all. For all I know, the real 'Doctor Harrows' is being hauled out of a ditch by police and cadaver dogs this very moment.
"Yes," Edward replies. He has a deep, captivating baritone voice, pleasant to listen to. He could do movie narratives. "The 'Napoleon' thing keeps my wife down to two visits a month."
"Huh," I says.
We eat breakfast in a quiet solitude rarely enjoyed in LOBO's presence. I'm on my third scotch, working up my courage, when LOBO emerges, holding his balls through his PJs, dancing from foot to foot. He looks alternately at a pack of cigarettes, the box of Frosted Flakes, and the bathroom door, frantic and confused.
"I would recommend the bathroom first," I says.
"Yes," he says, relieved as he scurries off.
Edward was on the couch reading quietly. He had read Chuck Palahniuk's Choke in it's entirety overnight, and was just starting Haunted. After a few minutes, he sets the book down in his lap and massages the top of his nose, under where his glasses settle. "This is the second book in a row where by page twelve people are sticking things up their butts," he says finally. "What is it with white Pop Culture?"
"Beats me," I says as LOBO emerges again.
To LOBO I says, "Did you wash your hands?"
He proudly displays his palms to me. "I'm running a bath now too," he says.
"Good," I reply.
"I found your birth certificate in a box down there. Did you know your middle name is Chainsaw?"
"Yes I did. And I would appreciate you minding your own fucking business from now on."
Another scotch, and I'm ready.
To Edward, "So the whole 'Napoleon' thing is an act?"
"Yes," Edward says as sets the book down again.
"But acting like Napoleon is crazy," I says.
"I'd be crazy not to," says Edward.
"Is that how you ended up in the asylum?"
"No. I'm in for substance abuse."
A card carrying multiple personality-addled drug addict. Peachy.
"It's a long story," says Edward.
***
The Harrows family had it all.
According to Edward, James Harrows, Edward's great-great grandfather, had invented the vulcanization of rubber, but was mugged by Charles Goodyear on the way to the patent office. Goodyear, late for a Klan rally, failed to rub his fingerprints off of the baseball bat, and the forensic evidence would bear this out to be factual many years later. Goodyear, now a multi-billion dollar company, was forced to offer an out-of-court settlement of eighteen bucks to the Harrow family by a white jury reluctant to go changing a lot of rather inconvenient history books.
Plus retroactive interest.
This made for quite a bit of money.
The Harrows, for generations, have subsequently been millionaires. Edward, never having worked a day in his life, was a top 5% Yale graduate, having received his PhD in music theory in 1994.
And then he puttered around Julliard for another two years, perfecting the mastery over his chosen instrument. Before long, he was one of the most widely-sought after triangle players in the world.
When he played with the London Symphony Orchestra, people eight rows deep wept at his predanatural gift. Journalists in dozens of languages decried that Edward must have made a deal with Satan himself to chime with such innate and mesmerizing talent. In his heyday, it was calculated by Forbes Magazine that he was flown all over the globe to chime for kings and queens at a rate of roughly $600,000 per heart-wrenching ting.
He then met his true love, Bethany Anne Bellefonte; before long the loving pair were married and proud parents of two beautiful children, Alicia and Carlton.
And it was at Carlton's first birthday party that things went so terribly awry.
Bethany decided she wanted the kind of party suitable for their elevated social stature. The petting zoo, the clowns, the works. And she wanted a sheik retro theme, complete with aerosol cans of Silly String and big bowls of giant Jawbreakers.
And Pop Rocks.
Edward, beguiled by the colorful packaging, ate a packet of orange Pop Rocks while he was setting up the party. He ate two packets of grape while the clowns made balloon animals.
By the end of the day, he had consumed thirty-four packets. Fresh out, he shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands, paying the extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because he couldn't pick them up at the warehouse tonight.
Four months later, when he crashed his 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
Bethany, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to Edward's rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted him, and Edward swore he would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But that very night, she woke him screaming that she couldn't sleep because he was crackling so loud. Days later, a perfunctory cleaning in the bathroom by the maid revealed Edward's stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Bethany packed up the kids and left him to the inevitable ruin that was to follow.
Edward's music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum bum ting" would come out "bum bum-ting-bum". The surgical precision required to hit a triangle with just the right force seemed to escape him, and it was either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. And the sound engineers never seemed to be able to identify and fix the mysterious sizzling static Edward's microphone would constantly seem to emulate.
Soon, he would show up late for symphony performances, play his single note, and then leave immediately --before the end of the show-- in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the single note on page 98, he would sleep through shows, missing his cue completely. Once, he accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music by accident and played the whole concert like it was dinnertime at the chuck wagon, earning him a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw. But his downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and he was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
His hygiene suffered, and his flesh seethed and bubbled visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.
Six months later, a guilt-ridden Bethany tracked him to a cheap motel room. Unemployed, Edward was pouring a packet of Pop Rocks into a spoon, tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, Edward had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Bethany.
"Nonsense," replied Edward, twisting the thick rubber band over his elbow. "I can quit anytime I want."
"I knew you would say that," says Bethany. "That's why I brought these people from Bertram."
Six big guys in white outfits entered the room. Each opened a straight jacket, a chain, some unrecognizable restraining gadget, a syringe.
"I don't need a goddamned intervention!" Edward screamed through purple teeth.
Then, blammo.
***
"Blammo?" asks LOBO, chewing loudly.
"Yes," says Edward. "Distracted by everybody, I accidentally touched the Pop Rocks in the spoon to the open flame. Bethany Anne Bellefonte-Harrows and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast. But the six orderlies and the rest of the entire floor of the motel were blown to smithereens. Hence, 'Napoleon'. It was either that or face eleven counts of reckless homicide."
Suddenly, the lights went out.
In the ensuing quiet, we could hear the bathtub running.
"Fuck!" I says. "Goddamnit LOBO, you left the tub running!"
LOBO offered me a painful Frosted Flake-riddled smile as he ran for the bathroom.
"I'm sure the water just tripped the circuit breaker," offered Edward.
I ran downstairs to flip the circuit breaker switch, and screamed when I hit the salted glass.
[Mr. I]
Napoleon, in full non-Napoleonic attire, was just getting back when I woke.
I decided, last night, that it would just be safer and more convenient to keep an eye on them from my place. The roommate thing hasn't really turned up anything so far, so it wasn't like I didn't have the space. So I gave Napoleon the extra bedroom, and went into the basement to clear out a spot for the other lunatic.
Luckily, I found a nasty old flea-ridden dog bed that has been there since I moved in.
Hearing the sounds of glass breaking, LOBO followed me down. He already had his footie Gi Joe pajamas on, and was gingerly toting a mug of hot chocolate.
"No marshmallows?"
"No," I says, sprinkling salt everywhere. "Now try not to break any more of this glass lying around. It's very valuable."
"Gotcha," he says, alternating the hot mug in his hands. "This'll be just like when we went camping in Chicago."
"Yes," I says absently as I climb the cobwebby stairs. "Minus the shooting," I add hopefully. When in Chicago, we got four parking tickets at $120 bucks apiece because of some snafu in parking permit paperwork. For once, LOBO and I were in complete agreement: the City of Chicago was a bloodsucking parasite, greedily feasting upon its hapless denizens.
While we inevitably had to pay the $480 in fines eventually, we did so with the peace of mind of knowing we had ruthlessly doled out at least $48,000 worth of vandalism, theft, and various other acts of healthy, righteous payback.
You know how mile marker '69' keeps disappearing?
That's us.
It was pointless, yet not somehow; we were "canceling out" whatever benefits this faceless evil enjoyed from this criminal exploitation, and then some. It was almost noble in a way, and it gave us a weird, visceral satisfaction. Fighting tyranny by playing a less-than-zero sum game. To this day, LOBO parks diagonally across three parking spaces, smashing the meter with his bumper, and is disappointed if the colorful paper under the windshield wiper is merely a flyer or a restaurant menu.
"Thank you," LOBO called up after me from the damp and dusty oppressive gloom.
"You're welcome, now go to sleep!" I yelled.
So, as I was saying, Napoleon walks into the kitchen this morning hauling two huge grocery bags as I'm blearily following the smell of brewing coffee. I'm in a bathrobe still, barefoot. Meanwhile, Napoleon is wearing a custom-fitted gray suit, complete with a thin red tie and expensive looking cufflinks. He looks like he's straight off of Wall Street.
And with the groceries in tow, he makes one of the best breakfasts I've ever had. Sausage. Bacon. Eggs florentine. Expresso. Real butter, and milk and cream tasting like the cow was right outside. When Napoleon is distracted, I sneak a peek at the receipts, bundled tightly around a credit card and sitting neatly on the kitchen counter. The breakfast ran an impressive $110. The suit was an even more impressive $760 after the alterations, and the Bruno Mali shoes a mere pittance at $280.
The credit card was a VISA Platinum.
And the name on it was Edward R. Harrows, PhD.
"You don't need to do that, uh, Napoleon" I says to him as he sets out a third place-setting for the vast breakfast spread. "He'll wake up and head straight for the Frosted Flakes."
"Please call me Edward," says Napoleon. "LOBO won't eat a hot breakfast?"
"Firstly, it has spinach in it. Secondly, he's saving box tops for a microscope."
Edward scowled slightly. "Do cereal companies still do that kind of thing?"
"Who knows?" I says.
"When does he get up?"
"Noonish."
"Well, he's on his own then."
I cave into my curiosity. "Edward, eh?" I ask cautiously. This guy is a mental patient after all. For all I know, the real 'Doctor Harrows' is being hauled out of a ditch by police and cadaver dogs this very moment.
"Yes," Edward replies. He has a deep, captivating baritone voice, pleasant to listen to. He could do movie narratives. "The 'Napoleon' thing keeps my wife down to two visits a month."
"Huh," I says.
We eat breakfast in a quiet solitude rarely enjoyed in LOBO's presence. I'm on my third scotch, working up my courage, when LOBO emerges, holding his balls through his PJs, dancing from foot to foot. He looks alternately at a pack of cigarettes, the box of Frosted Flakes, and the bathroom door, frantic and confused.
"I would recommend the bathroom first," I says.
"Yes," he says, relieved as he scurries off.
Edward was on the couch reading quietly. He had read Chuck Palahniuk's Choke in it's entirety overnight, and was just starting Haunted. After a few minutes, he sets the book down in his lap and massages the top of his nose, under where his glasses settle. "This is the second book in a row where by page twelve people are sticking things up their butts," he says finally. "What is it with white Pop Culture?"
"Beats me," I says as LOBO emerges again.
To LOBO I says, "Did you wash your hands?"
He proudly displays his palms to me. "I'm running a bath now too," he says.
"Good," I reply.
"I found your birth certificate in a box down there. Did you know your middle name is Chainsaw?"
"Yes I did. And I would appreciate you minding your own fucking business from now on."
Another scotch, and I'm ready.
To Edward, "So the whole 'Napoleon' thing is an act?"
"Yes," Edward says as sets the book down again.
"But acting like Napoleon is crazy," I says.
"I'd be crazy not to," says Edward.
"Is that how you ended up in the asylum?"
"No. I'm in for substance abuse."
A card carrying multiple personality-addled drug addict. Peachy.
"It's a long story," says Edward.
The Harrows family had it all.
According to Edward, James Harrows, Edward's great-great grandfather, had invented the vulcanization of rubber, but was mugged by Charles Goodyear on the way to the patent office. Goodyear, late for a Klan rally, failed to rub his fingerprints off of the baseball bat, and the forensic evidence would bear this out to be factual many years later. Goodyear, now a multi-billion dollar company, was forced to offer an out-of-court settlement of eighteen bucks to the Harrow family by a white jury reluctant to go changing a lot of rather inconvenient history books.
Plus retroactive interest.
This made for quite a bit of money.
The Harrows, for generations, have subsequently been millionaires. Edward, never having worked a day in his life, was a top 5% Yale graduate, having received his PhD in music theory in 1994.
And then he puttered around Julliard for another two years, perfecting the mastery over his chosen instrument. Before long, he was one of the most widely-sought after triangle players in the world.
When he played with the London Symphony Orchestra, people eight rows deep wept at his predanatural gift. Journalists in dozens of languages decried that Edward must have made a deal with Satan himself to chime with such innate and mesmerizing talent. In his heyday, it was calculated by Forbes Magazine that he was flown all over the globe to chime for kings and queens at a rate of roughly $600,000 per heart-wrenching ting.
He then met his true love, Bethany Anne Bellefonte; before long the loving pair were married and proud parents of two beautiful children, Alicia and Carlton.
And it was at Carlton's first birthday party that things went so terribly awry.
Bethany decided she wanted the kind of party suitable for their elevated social stature. The petting zoo, the clowns, the works. And she wanted a sheik retro theme, complete with aerosol cans of Silly String and big bowls of giant Jawbreakers.
And Pop Rocks.
Edward, beguiled by the colorful packaging, ate a packet of orange Pop Rocks while he was setting up the party. He ate two packets of grape while the clowns made balloon animals.
By the end of the day, he had consumed thirty-four packets. Fresh out, he shopped for them bulk online with trembling hands, paying the extraordinary fee to have them Fed-Exed the next day because he couldn't pick them up at the warehouse tonight.
Four months later, when he crashed his 1954 Bentley Type R, the cops found the floorboards covered in Pop Rocks packets.
Bethany, watching millions of dollars evaporate due to Edward's rapidly accelerating habit, finally confronted him, and Edward swore he would never touch a single Pop Rock ever again. But that very night, she woke him screaming that she couldn't sleep because he was crackling so loud. Days later, a perfunctory cleaning in the bathroom by the maid revealed Edward's stash: a thick, tight brick of Pop Rocks sealed in a waterproof ziplock bag floating in the upper toilet tank.
Bethany packed up the kids and left him to the inevitable ruin that was to follow.
Edward's music suffered. Stuff that was supposed to go "bum bum bum ting" would come out "bum bum-ting-bum". The surgical precision required to hit a triangle with just the right force seemed to escape him, and it was either far too loud and buzzing or completely inaudible altogether. And the sound engineers never seemed to be able to identify and fix the mysterious sizzling static Edward's microphone would constantly seem to emulate.
Soon, he would show up late for symphony performances, play his single note, and then leave immediately --before the end of the show-- in pursuit of the nearest fix. Rather than counting out measures on sheets and sheets of blank sheet music for the single note on page 98, he would sleep through shows, missing his cue completely. Once, he accidentally grabbed the violin sheet music by accident and played the whole concert like it was dinnertime at the chuck wagon, earning him a promising spot on a hip, irreverent episode of Hee Haw. But his downward spiral was impossible to mask even from them, and he was fired for calling Tom Wopat an asshole on live television.
His hygiene suffered, and his flesh seethed and bubbled visibly like a live thing under filthy, neglected clothing.
Six months later, a guilt-ridden Bethany tracked him to a cheap motel room. Unemployed, Edward was pouring a packet of Pop Rocks into a spoon, tonguing the inside of the packet. Eyes darting and bulgy, Edward had a lighter and a syringe, prepared for the Mother-of-All Pop Rocks high.
"I think it's time you faced the fact that you have a problem," said Bethany.
"Nonsense," replied Edward, twisting the thick rubber band over his elbow. "I can quit anytime I want."
"I knew you would say that," says Bethany. "That's why I brought these people from Bertram."
Six big guys in white outfits entered the room. Each opened a straight jacket, a chain, some unrecognizable restraining gadget, a syringe.
"I don't need a goddamned intervention!" Edward screamed through purple teeth.
Then, blammo.
"Blammo?" asks LOBO, chewing loudly.
"Yes," says Edward. "Distracted by everybody, I accidentally touched the Pop Rocks in the spoon to the open flame. Bethany Anne Bellefonte-Harrows and I survived by some incalculable miracle, having been thrown clear of the blast. But the six orderlies and the rest of the entire floor of the motel were blown to smithereens. Hence, 'Napoleon'. It was either that or face eleven counts of reckless homicide."
Suddenly, the lights went out.
In the ensuing quiet, we could hear the bathtub running.
"Fuck!" I says. "Goddamnit LOBO, you left the tub running!"
LOBO offered me a painful Frosted Flake-riddled smile as he ran for the bathroom.
"I'm sure the water just tripped the circuit breaker," offered Edward.
I ran downstairs to flip the circuit breaker switch, and screamed when I hit the salted glass.
Thursday
Love Machine
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Ethan's idea worked so well, I didn't take the picture off until we got to the Fox studios. They still had to film the conclusion of Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire?.
Immediately, the Fox techs start rigging him up with microphones.
"What's all this?" LOBO asks.
"They need to film the part where Lexus Hilton breaks it to you that she's not marrying you."
"Who?"
"Lexus Hilton--" I start. "Look, just forget it. Try to look disappointed."
Lexus, standing in front of a church altar in a dazzling white dress, takes this big dramatic pause while twirling a single rose in her fingertips. Looking over her two suitors for what seems like an eternity, the leggy beauty beams, "I choose you, Chip Intel."
"What!?" LOBO demanded. "You filthy whore! I loved you!" he sobs. "Well, don't you come crawlin back to me, you heartless, manipulative, two-timing, flea-ridden, disease-riddled, cum-guzzling gutter slut!"
"Cut!" yells the producer. "Print it. Cue the wedding music!"
"I thought you were special," LOBO continued. "--I thought what we had was special. But you rip out my heart and wring the blood out like a towel and then jump on it with stiletto heals and stuff it in a fiery garbage disposal instead ... ?!"
This went on for a while.
***
"... and eviscerate the remains of my heart in the super-collider, flushing the nerve endings down a sulfuric acid-filled toilet and blow-torching the leftover atomic particles into oblivion, and then dancing on the particles barefoot, squishing them between your spunk-contaminated monkey-masterbating toes ... !?"
"The wedding's been over for two hours, LOBO," I says gently, patting his shoulder. "She's gone. In fact, the crew's already done packing up and cleaning the set."
"You think she'll call?" he asks gloomily.
"Miss Hilton isn't good enough for you sir," consoles Napoleon.
"Who?"
[Mr. I]
Ethan's idea worked so well, I didn't take the picture off until we got to the Fox studios. They still had to film the conclusion of Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire?.
Immediately, the Fox techs start rigging him up with microphones.
"What's all this?" LOBO asks.
"They need to film the part where Lexus Hilton breaks it to you that she's not marrying you."
"Who?"
"Lexus Hilton--" I start. "Look, just forget it. Try to look disappointed."
Lexus, standing in front of a church altar in a dazzling white dress, takes this big dramatic pause while twirling a single rose in her fingertips. Looking over her two suitors for what seems like an eternity, the leggy beauty beams, "I choose you, Chip Intel."
"What!?" LOBO demanded. "You filthy whore! I loved you!" he sobs. "Well, don't you come crawlin back to me, you heartless, manipulative, two-timing, flea-ridden, disease-riddled, cum-guzzling gutter slut!"
"Cut!" yells the producer. "Print it. Cue the wedding music!"
"I thought you were special," LOBO continued. "--I thought what we had was special. But you rip out my heart and wring the blood out like a towel and then jump on it with stiletto heals and stuff it in a fiery garbage disposal instead ... ?!"
This went on for a while.
"... and eviscerate the remains of my heart in the super-collider, flushing the nerve endings down a sulfuric acid-filled toilet and blow-torching the leftover atomic particles into oblivion, and then dancing on the particles barefoot, squishing them between your spunk-contaminated monkey-masterbating toes ... !?"
"The wedding's been over for two hours, LOBO," I says gently, patting his shoulder. "She's gone. In fact, the crew's already done packing up and cleaning the set."
"You think she'll call?" he asks gloomily.
"Miss Hilton isn't good enough for you sir," consoles Napoleon.
"Who?"
Cabin Pressure
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone.
Long pause, yawning. “This better be important.”
“We’ve got a Code 16b in progress!”
Another pause. “LOBO is breaking out mental patients while simultaneously running for President?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. I bought them both little hats with propellers on them, and they ran around in circles trying to take off until they passed out.”
“Good work,” says Ethan.
“Now what?”
“You got any handcuffs?”
“No sir. I don’t really swing that way. I’m more of a duct tape kind of guy.”
“Fine," says Ethan. "Tape a picture of Dick Cheney hunting to his forehead. He won’t move for hours.”
[Mr. I]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone.
Long pause, yawning. “This better be important.”
“We’ve got a Code 16b in progress!”
Another pause. “LOBO is breaking out mental patients while simultaneously running for President?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sleeping. I bought them both little hats with propellers on them, and they ran around in circles trying to take off until they passed out.”
“Good work,” says Ethan.
“Now what?”
“You got any handcuffs?”
“No sir. I don’t really swing that way. I’m more of a duct tape kind of guy.”
“Fine," says Ethan. "Tape a picture of Dick Cheney hunting to his forehead. He won’t move for hours.”
Tuesday
Wild Kingdom
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
***
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
***
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
"___________ is a DICK
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
***
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Democrats
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Republicans
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
***
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
***
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
[Mr. I]
LOBO says, "The moment you lose the ability to reinvent yourself, you get old."
Unfortunately, he learned this at the ripe old age of six, and will probably stay there indefinitely.
This is already getting worse than when he went into self-imposed astronaut training last year. We'll be publishing his NASA application and blogging some of those stories as soon as they're declassified.
Stay tuned in 2075.
While his quixotic short-attention span-addled noggin keeps his ego virtually indestructible, it never seems to make screwball ideas like "Running for President" evaporate with any efficiency whatsoever.
I'm banking on the idea that this whole thing will have run it's course within a few days.
LOBO understood that a presidential campaign was probably going to take him the better part of the whole day. He got out of bed bright and early --10:30-- so he could do the yard before the press conference.
When I got there, he was just finishing hosing off the green linoleum that used to be grass.
Hands on his hips, he scowled at his 'yard'...
"It just looks so plain somehow," he says finally.
"Green linoleum instead of a yard looks too plain?"
"Yeah. And it's not patriotic enough."
"You could tear out the green and put in red, white and blue."
"God that would be so tasteless."
"Yes," I agreed. "The green is much more tasteful."
"Hm," he says, looking at me. He was lighting up with that creepy enthusiasm I've grown to dread. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"What are you thinking?" I ask. Here it comes.
"Garden gnomes." he says flatly. "And I could put little American flags on 'em. You know, so it'll look like they're all waving Old Glory."
"You know, I have to say I was definitely not thinking that."
"Does Home Depot carry garden gnomes? And tiny American flags?"
"Oh, sure. But it's Wednesday, and there's always a big rush on those two items on Wednesday."
LOBO, fingertips thoughtfully pressed his mouth, mutters, "Jesus, I'll bet you're right."
A UPS truck pulled up.
"Wow!" Says LOBO. "I can't believe they're here already!"
The UPS guy dollied in all eight gargantuan and heavy boxes into the living room in only two trips. As my eyes adjusted to being out of the daylight, LOBO was already signing for them.
I faintly hope whatever it is, it's not expensive.
"See you tomorrow!" he says to the UPS guy.
To me, he says "Was I supposed to tip him?"
"What's all this?" I ask.
"My campaign posters," he says absently as he tears open a box like it's Christmas.
"How can you make posters before you even know who you are running against?"
He pulls one out. It says:
VOTE FOR LOBO"
"We can put 'em up now and fill em out later," he says.
I notice a large blackboard with my name on it.
Well, more accurately, it reads:
Mr Insanity
Ethan
And in another column it says:
Sapphire
Phoebe
Under these columns are a bunch of complex, algebraic-looking scribbly and smudged equations.
And under those, it's scrawled:
Democrats=2
Republicans=2
Seeing me reading it, LOBO explains. "It's a representative sample I was working on. It came out inconclusive."
"That you would have a hard time getting elected from us?"
"No, I'm trying to figure out which party would win, so I can represent it. And I have to say, the Republicans are a lot cuter."
"Ever seen Rush Limbaugh?"
"Eeeyikes--!"
"Or Ann Coulter?"
Wincing, LOBO covered his groin as if someone were kicking it. "Okay dude. Stop. I get the picture. I've decided to start my own party anyway. All new tenants, brand new philosophy."
"Wouldn't inventing a whole political movement take a lot of time?"
"Well sure if you're gonna write the whole thing out."
"Which you're not going to do," I says. "You going to bother to name it?"
"My current favorite is squishing together 'LOBO' and 'humanity': Lobanity."
"I kinda like it. It could double as a diagnosis."
"I'm still working on it. It doesn't seem to have the same cachet as Catholicism or Scientology. It should be something cool sounding if I'm going to be king."
"You mean President."
"Right. Whatever. Now I've also got to think of an animal."
"An animal?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know, like the elephant-donkey thing. I'm thinking of maybe a crocodile. A crocodile would kick the shit out of an elephant or a donkey."
"You think?"
"How about a gorilla?"
"I think a crocodile would probably fair better against an elephant."
"What if the gorilla had a machine gun?"
Now, in my mind I'm picturing the printer not understanding perfectly, and making a half a million posters of machine gun-toting guerillas, and followed shortly by subsequent inevitable visits from the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA, the ATF ...
You know 'lobo', in Spanish, means wolf, right?" I volunteer.
"Really?" he says glumly. "I was hopin it was 'handsome' ... or maybe 'wealthy visionary genius' ... "
Okay, bad idea. "I'm leaning towards the crocodile myself."
"... I would have settled for 'Chainsaw'." he says. "I always thought that I would dig people callin me Chainsaw. It sounds cool. 'Hey everybody, Chainsaw's here.' and 'Hey Chainsaw, I want you to meet Veronica--'"
I look at him for a second. "Chainsaw."
"That settles it. My first kid is going to be named Chainsaw."
Suddenly I can't breath.
"--Unless it's a boy. If it's a boy, it's going to be Ted."
Anyone else in here got the shivers over LOBO actually breeding? "I think you should give the idea of having kids a lot of thought," I stammer. Then, thinking quickly, I add "and over a very prolonged amount of time, actually."
"There's nothing that says the crocodile can't have a machine gun too," LOBO reflects.
"Absolutely," I blurt, desperately changing the subject again. "The fact that there isn't a machine-gun toting crocodile representing a political ideology is a direct inditement of America's complete lack of imagination."
LOBO looks at me. "That was beautiful. Can I quote you on that?"
"Absolutely not."
LOBO sulks.
"How did you pay for the posters?"
"Credit card," he says.
"You realize that you have to eventually pay your credit card off, right?
"I already thought of that. I didn't use mine."
I reflexively check for my wallet. "Whose, exactly, did you use?"
"Phoebe's." he says. "I already maxed Sapphire's booking Korn for my Inaugural." He grabs an invisible guitar and starts bounding around the room. "... BUM, BUM, BUM CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA ... "
"You stole Sapphire and Phoebe's credit cards?"
"--CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA--"
"Do you have any idea how pissed they're going to be?" I says, louder.
He stops jumping on the couch. "It will be a very republican-friendly administration."
"I don't think that's going to help you."
"Do you know Jack Abramoff's phone number?"
"No," I says.
"Well, for someone so negative you're certainly not helping things."
I don't know where he got all the garden gnomes with little flags, but damn it there was a million of them at the press conference. And it was all going fairly well until the Newsweek guy asked if LOBO had ever done drugs.
"Have I ever!" brags LOBO. "Mr Insanity gets some really good shit."
I have no idea what happened after I slammed my car door and peeled out.
It was soon evident that my police scanner was malfunctioning.
" ... Kringle Control, this is Agent Foxtrot. Please come in."
"Go ahead Foxtrot, we read you."
"I found him. I'm on the premises. Awaiting further instructions."
"Terminate the subject without raising suspicions at your first opportunity. And then come on home."
"Affirmative. How is it up there?"
"It's fucking COLD, Foxtrot. What are you expecting a heat wave? Now cut the chatter and get busy--"
I clicked off the useless scanner, hoping it's still under warranty.
The next morning, I hadda go get LOBO out of Bertram Asylum again.
Having watched the news coverage of the Andrea Yates trial, LOBO figured it to be the foolproof angle for getting back in.
So he threw five of the garden gnomes in the bathtub, and called 911.
So I absolutely fuming as I drove him home. "Garden Gnomes!?!"
"Yeah. But Lowes ripped me off. One of them went all soft after it soaked for twenty minutes. Won't even stand up anymore."
"You knew Doctor Keller would recognize you," I yell.
"Yeah," he says glumly. "But I didn't go there hoping to stay really."
"What do you mean?"
"I needed to break out my running mate."
"Oh really." I says. "Is this 'running mate' here now?"
"Yes," says LOBO.
Oh great. Delusions about imaginary people too, I'm thinking. "Where is he?" I says sarcastically searching the dashboard and floorboards. "In the back seat?" I says, snarky as I look closely in the rearview.
LOBO at me strangely. Then he looks in the back seat, and then at me again. "No dude. Are you alright?"
"Well, I just figured--"
"He's in the trunk." LOBO confided.
I slammed on the brakes, nearly killing me, him, and fifty other motorists on the freeway.
In my trunk, I find a skinny black man in ill-fitting jeans and a t shirt that reads "I'm with stupid".
"Hello," he says, a little annoyed, wincing at me through harsh, new light.
"This guy is going to lock up my election," LOBO explains. "Mr I, I'm pleased to introduce you to the next Vice President of the United States. Napoleon Bonaparte himself!"
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