Lebaron sleeps, and I fantasize about snuffing out his very life. Time and again I approach him, stealthily, curved dagger in hand, but time and again, something stops me. That something is an electronic collar that sends 50 volts of electricity coursing through my body if I come within an 18-inch radius of the man. I cannot remove the collar; he welded it shut at the nape of my neck once when I was sleeping, the bastard. We tend not to sleep at the same time, for the purposes of guarding in shifts, or so I thought.
That’s right, it is I, Mobutu. Well, actually my name is Robert – but this imbecile insists on calling me Mobutu. I think it somehow makes him feel exotic. Odd desire for someone whose main mode of transportation is a Segway. Sure, he boasts of traveling the vast jungles of the third-world on all manner of wild beasts, but usually he’s simply traversing the aisles of a Walmart in your finer U.S. exurbs on an overblown, two-wheeled, standing scooter.
It is a fine metaphor for his life, actually: an overly complex collection of constantly moving parts that in its summation is ultimately preposterous. And of course the part that moves the most is his mouth. That man’s pie-hole is bigger than a Burmese python with an unhinged jaw poised to swallow a wild boar in the outskirts of Myanmar. It’s not just the sheer volume of content that spills from his maw like so much bile from a slit kidney; it’s the utter disdain he displays for any would-be interlocutor that tries to get a word in edgewise.
“Mobutu,” you might say (or “Robert,” if you’ve been paying any attention whatsoever), “Why don’t you just quit?” To which I would reply, “What? And leave show business?”
There is also the matter of the aforementioned collar, which triggers if I try to move more than ten yards away from that accursed wretch as well.