Prey-dar

Predator Press


[LOBO]

"I'm not going to be able to make it in today," wheezes Barbarossa over the radio. "I'm actually in the hospital."

Knowing Barbarossa's susceptibility to allergies, his first sick day doesn't really come as a surprise ... particularly in the pollen surfeit of this early Illinois Spring. But I have a corporate meeting scheduled this morning where toothy, well-dressed execs will want to decide what he should be fired for; Barbarossa's absence today would be professional suicide.

"Dude," he rasps over the phone cradled in my palm. "I think I just saw a the nurse fart!"

Switching the labels on his nasal decongestant spray and eye drops was merely hastening the inevitable.

-And inspired.

Reversing the Mayan Prophecy One Day at a Time

This is me in the picture.  Probably.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

For an additional $6.85 a week (after taxes), I am now officially in charge of Barbarossa -the closest approximation to a friend I have- and his girlfriend Agatha, who I strongly suspect is a transsexual.

The toothy boss-guy gripping my paw painfully gushes, "I think we've overlooked your rare qualifications long enough."

"I agree whoreheartedly" I reply, shaking back in a sincere and enthusiastic manner. "How soon can I fire people?"

Pthbbbt ... Stupid Mayans.

LOBO's Discourse on "The Nature of Reality." Yes, there's a Quiz.

Predator Press


[LOBO]

As the economy slowly recovers, overqualified people compete for grunt work.

(-I imagine you’ll hear a lot more stories like this in the near future.)

But one of my squad is getting a promotion.

And it might be me.



***
It took a lot of effort and misdirection to get to the Battery Room earliest this morning, but I had completely forgotten I reset the entire battery bay the night before. Personally. While I was expecting only one charged unit left, there was a full array of “juice” for all the walkie-talkies.

Still, the morning meeting wasn’t for another twelve minutes. I let the door close behind me and basked in the restorative quiet, slipping into the deskless swivel chair for a contemplative moment.

"Honey. we can't see each other anymore.
-It's not you, it's me."

Absently doing the well-practiced battery swap, I ponder having forgotten I set them up yesterday. Indeed I now remember explicitly doing it. But I could have walked in on a single battery today, and never given it another thought. The good ole sterile, irrefutable, mathematical Universe confounded its favorite Existentialist again with a potent dose of non-subjective Reality -alas only demonstrating my full embrace of the lens from which I choose to view it.

The “promotion” is nigh inconsequential, and hardly warranting attention. Paywise, it is about a quarter an hour -$10 a week. Before taxes.

And I am apparently competing with the rest of my “squad,” Barbarossa and Agatha –both of whom burst suddenly into the room, startling me slightly, and apparently discussing the same subject.

“It’s not worth it,” explains Agatha. She greets me with a dismissive wave, engrossed in conversation with Barbarossa. “It just makes people complain to you more. And that’s all people do around here is complain.”

The fact that Agatha is ironically complaining hasn’t escaped me, but I got lost in thought about Agatha's hands.

I don’t think "Agatha" is a woman.

***

See you can tell a lot about people by their hands. Their real age. Their occupation.

Their sex.

It beats that “Adam’s apple” crap all to hell. You can have the Adam’s apple surgically altered. But to my knowledge there’s no plastic surgery for hands -and could you imagine the expense? Thus, I suspect this large-handed, sometimes flat chested, six foot two, athletically-built, redhead-sporting-rare-patches-of-unfreckled-flesh “woman” -who personally chose the name “Agatha” BTW, and visibly smolders about all the above- is competition for this dubious honor with me.

In any case, she will kick ass on our softball team. Barbarossa, on the other hand, is of little concern. His eyes are black and swollen from sleepless exhaustion. And his hands shake from nervous anxiety. Addled. He really, really looks like he could use some pot to relax. But remember he thinks I am his probation officer for some reason, and I promptly dispose of unprocessed piss tests of his on a weekly basis like clockwork.

 -I can't let him cloud his judgment now, potentially on the cusp of a potentially huge career move for him, can I?

As a Professional, I would prefer Barbarossa seek out the Universe's source of his issues -like the fact that someone using a surreptitiously-made car key has been sneaking out of the morning meeting and parking his car someplace different, adjusting his seats, reprogramming his radio stations and, yes, occasionally slightly deflating a random tire here and there.

I only know this because I have been paying Agatha twenty bucks a week to do it for over a month now.

And with Barbarossa out of the running, I’ll just point out the parking lot security tape of Agatha doing it.

But then I noticed something else disturbing about Agatha's hands.

-Barbarossa was holding one of them.

I think I screamed.

By Chainsaw or Blowtorch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Regardless of misadventure, I make the same intersection every morning between 6:23 and 6:26 in the morning.

This morning, however, I’m on track: 6:23, and I even had time to make a second cup of coffee.  And despite my misgivings that it was too dark, the coffee is delightful.

Respecting an hourly wage -half of what you made a scant three years ago- requires some occasional "zen."

But it seems the more painted white rectangles that pass rhythmically under my car, the more gray hairs I get.

The Heart of the Artichoke

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.

LadyTerri found this rather laughable.

"Supervillain?" she scoffs. "You passed out when I told you there were artichoke hearts in your salad."

"I'm a vegetarian!"

"Artichokes are vegetables."

"Well, that explains the rather lackluster effect of me gaining the vitality and courage of the artichoke by eating it's heart," I concede.

"If you're a vegetarian, why do you always want me to make pork chops?"

"'That which does not bend breaks,'" I recite wisefully.

"Stop quoting fortune cookies," she demands.

"Look," I insist. "I need a certain number of pork chops a day. I'm hypoglycemic."

"So you're going to be the world's first hypoglycemic quasi-vegetarian Supervillain? You blubbered like a sissy when Bambi's mom got shot."

"Hypoglycemics are prone to counter-regulatory hormones triggered by the falling glucose, and the neuroglycopenic effects produced by the reduced brain sugar!" I protest.

"Stop quoting Wikipedia!"

"I already bought a cape!"



***

I take exception to LaryTerri's doubts. Since childhood I have wanted nothing more than to be a Supervillain.

Dammit, I thought. What does she know? I'm absolutely oozing with, um, Supervillainiousness.

In fact I question the credentials of virtually all other acknowledged Supervillains!

Take Lex Luthor, for instance. How long can you go on as a qualified 'Supervillain' when you've known your arch-rival Superman's greatest weakness for decades and have yet been unable to exploit it? Lex shoulda just used a surface-to-air heat seeking missile to affix Kryptonite to Superman's keyster in flight. Suddenly, Superman can't fly any better'n a garden-variety cinderblock. Plus he ain't the "Man of Steel" anymore. Splatto! End of story.

Getting your ass kicked once a month hardly qualifies.

They shoulda called that guy Lex Loser

Still, I can't expect to go from zero to Supervillain overnight.

I need a reputation.

So I decides to do some midnight skulking.

Unfortunately, midnight is pretty late. I need a good 16 or 17 hours of sleep a night or I can't function at all. Plus, if I came home after midnight LadyTerri would totally kick my ass. But it occurred to me that midnight skulking at around 8:30 would be really sneaky ... no one would expect that.

Man, that's positively evil.

Ominously seizing the lunchbag she packed for me off of the counter, I made my way out to seek my evil destiny.

I started small. Once sufficiently dark, I tried kicking over the neighbor's garden gnomes. But the ground is frozen; all I did was painfully jam my toe. I figured I would have more luck with the trash cans, but their dog heard me and woke 'em up.

"Get the hell away from my trash LOBO!" Jeanie Anderson yelled.

"I'm not LOBO, Jeanie!" I replied, eyebrow arched.

-Hah! Already spinning my webs of deceit, I'm just crawling with evil now!


***

I wasn't really afraid when Stan Anderson loosed their dog Rommel on me.

That's not why I ran.

I ran because it's 6 degrees, and I'm wearing nothing but black rubber and spandex, a mask and cape.

-I'm freaking freezing.

Full-blown Supervillains seem to get way cooler uniforms. I'm not sure why ... maybe they get discounts for dry cleaning. This would be a good thing, because I keep forgetting I'm wearing the cape and dragging it outside the car door.

And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.

Rommel then proceeded to dismember my car piece by piece. It was quite frightening; first it was small items like the door handles, mirrors and windshield wipers. Then those powerful paws appeared in my windshield; he clawed my rumpling hood for purchase while his enormous foam-dripping teeth shredded newly-exposed engine in enraged frustration.

Rommel paused to growl hideously at me through the glass, and I could see cuts and blood on his gums; rearing back as if in a sudden moment of inspiration, he began hurling himself against the windshield repeatedly, and web-like cracks began to race across with every impact.

Now this is why Supervillains have henchmen. I could've used a handful here. I could, for instance, make one get out and push. And then as the dog kills him, I make the next guy get out and push. -And continue on in that fashion until the beast's bloodlust was sated, or until I had been sufficiently pushed free.

Plunging finally through the windshield, I was surprised when Rommel passed right over my femoral artery and voraciously attacked the pork chops and salad LadyTerri packed for my dinner.

My God, I thought. This is the meanest Boston Terrier I've ever seen.

... and now he has eaten the heart of the artichoke too.

Dragunov

No.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Working for a book distributor, it's safe to say I see several thousands of book covers a day.

I judge each and every book cover ruthlessly, with zeal, and in a fraction of a second.

So I've never read anything by Heather Graham.  The only reason reason I "clocked" her, in fact, was because I incorrectly thought this was the movie actress (from "Boogie Nights" and "Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me") turned author.

"Bride of the Night?"  Seriously?  I can feel
my temples closing in on each other.

-But alas the book covers were already judged.  I wish there was something I could do.

I am firmly sure the author Heather Graham that is not actress Heather Graham writes some damned brilliant literature on par with actress Heather Graham.  But would someone please help author and non-actress Heather Graham out with her titles?  Author and non-actress Heather Graham is making actor and non-author Heather Graham look like a bad author.

I submit the following for your consideration:

The Presence

The Sinister Urge

Night of the Vampires

Bride of the Monster

The Death Dealer

Jail Bait

Deadly Gift

Half of the above titles are Ed Wood movies -the guy famous for "Plan 9 from Outer Space."

Can you pick out author, non-actress Heather's?

Or Die Trying

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having had the shit beat out of me by years of bad economy –my second Recession should you count the one in the 1980’s (and you SHOULD)- was bad enough.  But to follow it now, just when things are looking slightly in the "less" abysmal side, with gray hairs?

Really?

-O cruel and vengeful God.  Why me?  Couldn't You just pick on Job some more?  That whole thing was hilarious, and it still holds up after all these years.  Or how about Bryan Robinson?

I noticed God's playful "mayhem" in some detail shaving this morning: gray hair a go-go.  And we’re beyond the random stray.  WAY beyond.  We’re full on into tufts!  I’m not doing the “salt ‘n pepper” thing gracefully either:  I’m getting a full-blown shock of white above my right temple, like a lopsided Bride of Frankenstein.  Now when I hiss and spit at people, it’s going to seem cartoony!

Still, I’ve made the conscious decision to not try dies and crap.  Mostly out of fear that that’s one step removed from buying a red Corvette Stingray and a lot of gold necklaces.

Or worse.