Yeah, this is Rob, comin' at ya LIVE from high atop the Ren Cen.

OK, so, Lord Architeuthis is totally still mopping over that shit he got into two weeks ago with one of the faggy dickwad editors, which is totally giving me a pain in the ass.

But, so, I went through the question queue— and, by the way, there are like a CAJILLION fucking question is there. I dunno what Lord A gets up to, but it sure as hell ain't answering his mail— and it seemed that a pretty big percentage were about what he eats. I mean, folks asked different ways (like "how does the giant Squidget there food if it runs away twice?" and "What do squid eat?" and like that) but they were all getting at the same thing.

Now, I don't know about squid and shit— except for the one at the Belle Isle Aquarium, which is a cuttlefish anyway, so doesn't count, but I still don't know anything about what it eats— but I can tell you about Lord Architeuthis. Mostly, he eats dogs. Big ones, little ones, fat ones, skinny ones, pretty ones, ugly ones— the whole nine yards. But always live ones. Since the tank is so high pressure, and goes all the way to the ceiling, we've got this special thing for "introducing" the food dogs into the tank. It's sorta like the torpedo tubes they've got in old war movies. ("Load dog one, lock and FIRE!!!) Man, those dogs— I mean, I dunno how word gets around, but they know about the tube, and they totally aren';t interested in going near it. Plus, Lord A won't let us drug the dogs or anything before "introducing" them, so, well . . . it's fucking hard, is all.

Sometimes he goes, like, weeks with nothin' but a chihuahua a day, and other times it's just: St. Bernard, St. Bernard, St. Bernard, big weird mutt, St. Bernard, Wiemeraner, St. Bernard, three welsh corgis, St. Bernard, St. Bernard. Then he doesn't eat for two days and spends it all whining about being fat, then we're back to St. Bernard, St. Bernard, St. Bernard . . .

Also, we name 'em. Lord A encourages it. Usually I name 'em after people on T.V. sitcoms that piss me off. But I don't watch that many sitcoms, and he eats a lot of dogs; yesterday I fed him Rachel's 38 and 47 (springer spaniel and lab-beagle mutt) and Raymond's 108 through 117 (chihuahua puppies— all in a row, they hit the water like a burst of machine gun fire, and, like, basically burst on impact.)

Also, I saw him eat a bunch of grapefruit once. Like, eight bushels. And a TV set and one of those gurney things they have in morgues, those steel rolley-tables. We had to use the extra-big dog tube for that one. the tube we use for like, great danes and mutantly large labradors. Oh, yeah, and shoes. He eats a lot of shoes, lady's shoes, but he doesn't really talk about it, not like the dogs. I think it's, like, a Tremulon-4 delicacy.

OK, and one extra freebie from the "shit Lord A doesn't feel like answering" file:

What is your habitat like?

I dunno. Pleasant, I guess. He has this big rock— like a lava rock sorta looking thing, or a meteorite— and the chassis from a car, and one of those underwater welding rigs and a bunch of other stuff, like books and a globe and Legos and stuff. Little craft projects made out of dog bones and whatever. Also, there's the armature thingy, the he sorta shimmies into, in order to control his manipulator claws and access the Web and shit— but all of that's been broken for, like, months, so he doesn't even mess with it much anymore. I dunno what's up with that.

He also has this helmet-thing that hangs from the ceiling with all of these wires and flashing lights on it. I asked him once what it was for and he just laughed and laughed and strapped it onto his head and wiggled around a lot, giggling.

The tank is, like, maybe a hundred yards across, which is all the way from wall-to-wall in that part of the lab, and maybe 300 yards deep, going back the long way. He's got windows, down on that other end, where he can see down out into the city. When all the lights are out in the lab, like, early in the morning, and you go out in there, the sun, coming up over the river, its light filters in through all that water (seriously, we're talking, what? 6 million cubic yards of the old H-to-the-O, right? Ice cold and high pressure and shit.) and it's

just

too

fucking

awesome.

And Lord A, all laid back in the back of the tank, hanging like this silhouette in the water in front of his windows, like the Lord of All He Surveys.

Shit man, it hits you right in the chest, looking at it. Makes you know you're part of just some wild ass shit.

But, lately, he doesn't do much of that the last two weeks. He's just skulkin' around the bottom, in the far corner, keeping his colors down and just moping and listening to my Smiths CD that he totally fucking stole.

Man, I totally hope he cheers up soon.

I'm out,
Rob