Wolf Battles The Open Road

It has been recently established that the Wolf is not the type of person who caters to implications that he is in any way "little." He is the Lobo, most certainly not the "Lobito," and when he does things he does them on a scale that leaves no doubt as to the virulent grandiosity of his character.

He doesn't build houses; he builds sprawling mausoleums of marble and stainless steel. He doesn't simply erect power lines; he launches campaigns of destruction that anger myriad government agencies and kill elderly German developers. And when he prepares for his annual sabbatical in the densely wooded mountains of the Pacific Northwest, he doesn't simply purchase a plane ticket and rent a car when he gets there. No, he outfits himself in a style that demands instant respect and attention.

For when one is accustomed to living within the tropical luxury of marble clad insanity, when one expects cold cranberry juice and Walker Texas Ranger, how can one be asked to forsake them when one is away from home? The answer is one cannot. And the simple solution is that one who wants these things brings them on the road.

And so the Wolf has devised a means of transportation that accomplishes these goals, all the while smartly complimenting his lust for conspicuous lunacy and mammoth impracticality. The result is a massive truck/camper combination that pushes at the outer bounds of America's constitutionally tolerant fascination with vehicular absurdity.

The photos below depict the Lobo minutes before his departure for the great green north. It is obvious that even in exiting the field of battle he conducts himself with an eye towards cultivating a sense of intimidating vulgarity. For who could have thought a modified 4x4 Ford F-350 Crew Cab Dually could be dwarfed by anything short of a 747? Who could have thought it necessary on top of all that truck and camper, to attach a steel rack and motorcycle? Who could have thought it prudent to meticulously dye each gray hair in his beard before posing in front of his own automotive Frankenstein with an animal that clearly does not wish to be there. The answer is one man. That man's name is the Lobo.

A Seamless Transition from Marble Mausoleum to Alpha Dog of the Asphalt

The Wolf Den Goes Mobile

A Road Warrior's Ode to Youth in a Bottle
(of Just For Men)

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