Wolf Battles Pejorative Nicknames

By now, it should be perfectly clear that the Wolf is a man who pictures himself striding through life with a brio and panache much larger than his slight frame might suggest. He knows in his soul that he is a big person stuffed into a little package and he demands that the world view him that way as well. For, if there is one thing that should be most apparent to readers, it is that the Lobo is not someone to quietly suffer the slings and arrows of attacks upon his person or surroundings.

When Dead Burt mistook him for a bowlegged yokel from Idaho, he educated the German with a formidable torrent of hate and malignancy. When Dead Burt's daughter made the same mistake, he responded with a herbicidal display of carnage and destruction. And finally, when a band of vacationing Mexicans refused to stop defecating in front of his gate, he devised a wily and effective method for dissuading them. By all accounts the Lobo is a man who, though slight in stature, projects a force of power and resonation. He engages all three dimensions in real time and does it with style.

That is why he becomes so infuriated when the few elderly Mexican women he associates with insist on addressing him as "Lobito."

For the Wolf, it is a cut that borders on the unfathomable. For really, who are these little old ladies to suggest that the Lobo is a "little" wolf? Who are they to suggest that he is little in any capacity? Don't they know that he has carved into the unyielding jungle a monument to all that is excessive and depraved and eternally unnecessary? Do they think that someone named "Lobito" would be capable of spearheading the feats of design and engineering involved in ensuring that his cranberry juice remains at a fixed temperature?

In the reality that exists outside of the Lobo's vision of himself, these women have never considered these questions. For when the nice innkeeper or friendly seamstress that sews his torn pillowcases encounter the Wolf, they see a silly little man stumbling through an ill-conceived and horribly pronounced sentence in broken Spanish. They smile, maybe say, "Si Lobito" as a kind term of endearment, and go about their business without a thought. The Lobo also smiles, turns away, and is instantly crushed by the existential implications that he is widely considered to be "little."

On more than one occasion the Wolf has expressed his dissatisfaction with the nickname to the Badger. He has never overtly betrayed the extent of the psychological turmoil he experiences upon hearing it, but the Tejon can sense the doubt and despair.

Now make no mistake, the Badger is not foolish enough to think that this uncertainty in any way diminishes the danger of the Lobo as an enemy. The events surrounding Dead Burt are still excruciatingly present in his consciousness. If anything the Lobo's existential dread could push him into rash and even more dangerous action.

But at the same the Tejon recognizes the potency of this knowledge as a psychological weapon against the Wolf. Drawing on his knowledge of propaganda, the Badger has begun an innocuous grass roots campaign to draw community awareness to the viability of incorporating the nickname "Lobito" into everyday conversation with the Lobo.

Recognizing the power of the mural in the rich history of Mexican art, the Tejon commissioned a piece by a local artist. While the finished product is simple and understated in its aesthetic, the Badger has great faith in the influence of the medium. Below lie photos of this piece of urban art. Only time will speak to its effectiveness.

A Breakthrough in the Art of Psychological Warfare?

The Badger Votes With his Thumb

Lobo: An Improvised Field Dossier

There are many of you to whom Lobo is but an abstraction. He is a construct that exists within the pages of this document and nowhere else. That is understandable. There are others amongst you who can with little effort readily conjure a vivid image of the man. You are those who have broken bread with the Wolf. Perhaps you have even drank deeply from his seemingly endless cup. Yet do you really know him? Are you any closer to the flesh and blood of the man than those who regard him merely as myth? The reality is no. Just as Homer never knew the warrior Achilles, no one can truly know the Lobo.

At the same time few argue that without Homer, we might never have heard the name Achilles. Without the poet their would have been no Aeneas, no Odysseus, and no Troy. Yet who amongst us can bring such elaborate detail to the rendering of a man we may or may not know? I certainly cannot. The Badger has no faculty for story telling. We must look elsewhere for the means to understand Lobo.

Fortunately there exists a parallel tale. The author is unknown and it concerns neither Lobo nor Tejon per se, but tells the story of a man eerily similar to the Wolf himself. I have excerpted a portion of it here. Remember that this is not the tale of Lobo and the author is no Homer, but rather the story brings to life the beginnings of a man from which we can all learn much. The hearty readers amongst you will be rewarded for their perseverance.

The public life of the man once known to those around him as Gary Bolin is predictable and well documented. A pillar of regional industry, he ran his construction company prudently and responsibly. He had a hand in much of the development of the northern Idaho area in which he had settled in his twenties and was well regarded around town for the quality of his work. Though he could on occasion succumb to the baser temptation of drink, these transgressions were largely expected and forgiven of the men in his town. He was, by all accounts, the type of man admired and respected in medium sized western communities, a man of conservative nature with just enough recklessness to disarm the natural human aversion to sanctimony. This was who Gary Bolin was.
But then he was gone. Transformed, as it were, into a retired expatriate, living in Mexico and going by the garish handle “Garobo.” The shift was announced in a widely circulated email penned by Garobo himself. Using sparse, cryptic language the communiqué alluded to the fact that Gary Bolin no longer existed. He had started a new life in Mexico under the moniker Garobo and did not plan on returning. It offered no insight as to motive or inspiration. The conclusion stated that communication was welcome but all future inquiries must be made to Garobo in Mexico, not Gary, not Garobo Bolin, just Garobo.
It is easy to imagine the response in Idaho. Speculation rang from every corner of town. The bars and taverns that Gary frequented were awash in rumor and innuendo. Men and women rumpled their foreheads and scowled over cocktails. Some of the more astute among them pointed out that Garobo means iguana in Spanish. None of this, however, brought them any closer to understanding the truth behind his departure.
His town, Coeur d’Alene, was small enough that most were certain he wasn’t fleeing prosecution. They knew he had no debt, were certain his business affairs were in order, and assumed he was of good health. But what then? What would drive someone away from a successful business, from ensured income, from respect and stability? Furthermore, why Mexico? Why a country saturated with poverty and violence? And perhaps most perplexing, why Garobo?
To be certain those who knew him well saw in his past the potential for just such a transformation. They pointed out he had in his early twenties sloughed off the comfort of his middle class upbringing in Chicago and lit out for the west. They noted how when he first arrived in Coeur d’Alene he hid his Jewish heritage and affected the aire of a rough and tumble western cowboy. Even as they acknowledged that these things were true though, there remained a disconnect between the Gary they knew and their vision of a quixotic Garobo gallivanting around Mexico. And for a few nights out of this logical rift poured frenzied speculation and fiercely imaginative tales of the Garobo’s exploits in wild Mexico. The normally banal happy hour banter regarding work and politics and television was replaced with passionate and creative storytelling. Wild theories abounded and many a beautiful and intricate tale was spun in the wake of his disappearance.
Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those tales. The reality is that all but a few residents of Coeur d’Alene forgot about the saga of Garobo shortly after he disappeared. The stories dried up. His employees found work elsewhere. His bartenders served the other regulars. And the stories they told were lost nearly the second they were uttered.

We, however, are not subject to such rumor and innuendo. There lies before us a flesh and blood Lobo. That he is not Garobo is secondary. He may as well be. For we will never understand why Lobo is the way he is any more than those in Coeur d'Alene will understand Garobo's departure. Yet while we may not know why he does the things he does, we know concretely what those things are. And besides, none of this really concerns the Tejon and thus it shouldn't concern you either.

Birth of the Badger

Over one year ago a man arrived in the jungles of Mexico. The sun and the ocean and the bounty of the fertile land that comprised his surroundings fostered deep within him a sense of the vast potential of his existence. He stood at the gate of destiny and beamed at the future.

But there was someone beaming back. Rather, there was a bowlegged little man swaggering towards him with a rakish grin. This man explained to him the difficulties of living in Mexico. He complained about his solar system and his batteries and his television and his struggle to bring electricity to his home. He railed against his lawyer and the price of marble and the propensity of Mexicans to defecate in front of his gate. He called himself Lobo and insisted that others do as well.

Most importantly, however, he killed the man who had once been so naively hopeful about the carefree future awaiting him. Yes, that man is dead, but do not despair. For out of his ashes a new man has risen. A man equally optimistic yet armed with the faculties to battle Lobo's corrosive negativity. He is a badger and his name is Tejon.

Like the best battles, this one is being waged without Lobo's knowledge. But make no mistake, a battle it is and this forum will serve to document the intricacies of that struggle. For those prone to anxiety or high blood pressure be advised that much of what will appear will be salacious and shocking. For those of you willing to take a risk I promise exciting and gripping tales of intrigue and deception. Join me if you dare.