The universe has a way of recycling its mistakes. Take Al’s Diner, for instance—a greasy chrome coffin orbiting the corpse of a neutron star, where the coffee tastes like ionized regret and the pie could survive a supernova. The regulars? Bounty hunters, warp-drunk mercs, and things that forgot their own names. But tonight, the main attraction was Lobo, the Main Bastich himself, slouched in a corner booth. His boots dented the table. His smirk bent spacetime.  
He’d just finished a job—something messy involving a plutonium whale and a black market taxidermist—and was celebrating with a pitcher of *Neutron Blitz*, a beer so toxic it glowed. The waitress, Nova, was new. Green hair, star-map tattoos, and a glare that could frost solar winds. She’d been warned about Lobo. *“Don’t make eye contact. Don’t laugh at his jokes. And for the love of quasars, don’t turn your back.”*  
Lobo’s hand moved faster than light-speed gossip. A *smack* echoed through the diner. Nova froze. So did the air. Somewhere, a glass shattered.  
From the shadows near the jukebox—*he* emerged.  
Don Tonzo wasn’t a man. He was a rumor with a pulse. Some said he’d strangled a black hole. Others swore he’d forged his tungsten hammer in the heart of a dying star. Tonight, he wore a white tee, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms etched with scars that looked suspiciously like Sanskrit.  
*“That’s my girl,”* he said, voice like a glacier calving.  
Lobo grinned. *“Ain’t she sweet? Bet she’s got a—”*  
The hammer moved.  
No one saw the swing. Just the aftermath—the *crunch* of Lobo’s face imploding, the sizzle of Czarnian flesh welding to the hammer’s head. Tonzo sighed, peeled the shirt off his back, and wiped the gore away. The cotton drank Lobo’s DNA like a sacrament.  
Regeneration is a bitch. Lobo’s cells reassembled with a sound like bones in a blender. He lunged. Tonzo sidestepped, hammer swinging. They crashed through the diner’s roof, into the vacuum, brawling past derelict ships and asteroid meth labs.  
---  
**The Binary System Incident**  
Two stars. Yellow giants, married for a billion years. Their light warmed a dozen planets—civilizations of poets, engineers, and one particularly chill species of sentient moss.  
Then came the Bastich and the Beast.  
Lobo, now the size of a small moon (don’t ask), swung a chain forged from neutron star core. Tonzo, shirtless and roaring, parried with his hammer. Each collision birthed novas. Planets cracked like eggs. The poets wrote their last sonnets. The moss sighed.  
By hour three, the stars themselves began to unravel. Tonzo pinned Lobo to a comet, hammer raised. *“Apologize.”*  
*“To who? The moss?!”*  
*“To *her*.”*  
Lobo spat a tooth. It vaporized a dwarf planet. *“Fine. Sorry I spanked your girl.”*  
Tonzo lowered the hammer. *“…Good enough.”*  
They sat on the remains of a gas giant, passing a flask of *Dark Matter Reserve*. Lobo nodded at the shirt, now crusted with stardust and face-melt. *“That’s art, Tonzo.”*  
*“It’s a rag.”*  
*“Nah. It’s a warning.”* Lobo grinned. *“Wear it. Let the galaxy know you’re *my* kinda psycho.”*  
---  
**The Groupie Incident**  
The shirt resurfaced at *Club Event Horizon*, a dive bar near the Milky Way’s septic tank. Tonzo, now semi-legendary, played bass for *Don Tonzo & The Singularities*. Their hit single? *“F*ck the Moss (We Tried).”*  
A groupie with snake fangs and a PhD in bad decisions offered him a six-pack of *Plutonian Pilsner*. Tonzo traded the shirt. *“Wash it in blood,”* he said. *“Or don’t. I ain’t your mom.”*  
---  
**Your Turn**  
You found it at a flea market between a Betamax player and a jar of “alien” toenails. The vendor winked. *“Real Lobo bloodstains. Extra if you want the story.”*  
You washed it once. Big mistake. The water came out neon green. Now, the face glows when you’re angry. The scarred eye follows your ex’s Instagram posts.  
Last night, you dreamt of supernovas.