Duel of the Fates

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

RDO really never lost interest in the goings on here on Earth; he just had to change strategy.

The dinosaurs had been his longest success. But they were difficult to control and bad-tempered overall. And the Earth's tumultuous temperatures over the eons proved to be their greatest vulnerability.

They were simply unable to adapt.

Sapphire, a much more sophisticated, elegant, and expensive design, was constructed to obviate these flaws. But despite being designed a female, she soon was able to drive, vote, think and operate completely independently. She too was difficult to control and bad-tempered overall.

This obviously was completely unforeseen.

Then there was the plan to clone LOBO indefinitely until the Earth self-destructed in a glut of stupidity. But once again, the unforeseen became the plan's undoing; RDO had no idea the capacity for wanton and unnecessary violence that permeated the human species: all the LOBO clones were slain.

-Hell, the humans had contests killing them.

So RDO decided that maybe he would start to think small. He developed tough and flexible micro-alloys, high-speed tiny devices and reconnaissance tools, and chips and processors that bordered defying quantum mechanics.

And there it was, at the paltry sum of $45,006,787, 897.06, sitting on LOBO's coffee table.

At a glance, it might resemble a shiny chrome metallic fly.


***

Templeton scratched and licked at his vast array of eyes, confused.

"Something is definitely wrong," he transmitted. "I can't translate what the big people are saying. I only get 'WOLF' every now and then."

There's a pause, then a response. "Templeton, you were evidently sent with the wrong language module. Yours appears to be Spanish. You are instructed to activate the television when the humans are gone, and observe until you can decode the English language."

"Understood," replied Templeton. "Out."

Templeton darted slightly to the left, facing the television. Then, seeking out the right radio waves, within moments he activated the television and was surfing channels. Earth data streamed gloriously into his memory banks, and were processed and sorted. If every computer on this planet were working for the same goal, Templeton could do it in half the time.

Unfortunately, nowhere in Templeton's vastly-advanced technological brain was there ever any mention of the Felis domesticus until he spotted a show on it on The Animal Channel.

And just as Templeton settled in for this fascinating documentary, Phil struck.


***

Phil had been aware of Templeton for some time. And to her credit, she had closed on him with the silent grace and keen hunting skill born of centuries of evolution; as Templeton became increasingly engrossed in the 'lighty box', his body language relaxed slightly.

Phil lunged, and almost instantly Templeton was airborne.

Templeton, while not entirely convinced of his own endangerment, charged his defenses, circling curiously. This incited a second strike from Phil. Missing poorly, she hadn't completely calculated her landing properly and landed paws-down on the floor, unsteadily and with her back to Templeton.

Templeton fired a warning shock, and Phil howled furiously. She circled back warily; Templeton, unafraid, simply hovered in haphazard, jerky motions that attracted her attack even more. She hissed.

Templeton was now reading Phil as a confirmed threat, but his curiosity got the best of him. Settling on the window of Babs' China hutch -presumably a safe enough distance-he continued to watch and observe the truly remarkable Earth species from a safe height.

The height that she could jump caught him completely off guard; her clawed paw caught him squarely, but her momentum carried her heavily into the hutch. Numerous China plates came down in a deafening crash.

Templeton, alarmed, fired his tiny jets for a burst of speed as he retreated towards the bedroom. But this cramped and unfamiliar space was Phil's home, and the tiny invader was at a significant disadvantage. Within precious moments of Phil slashing and biting inches behind, Templeton realized he was trapped: the bedroom had only one entrance, hence one exit. Following the natural upward arch of Babs' waterbed, he climbed, buzzed the headboard, and came back in the opposite direction in an attempt to fly back over the cat towards the only escape route.

Phil hit the waterbed claws bared, and with powerful hind legs launched herself high in the air slashing wildly at the tiny intruder -barely catching purchase on a bookshelf before leaping once more. The force of this leap wobbled the shelves, but both hunted and hunter were long gone before they all came crashing to the floor.


***

The kitchen, in a rather uncharacteristic state of tidiness, was brighter than the rest of the house; the drapes were thrown wide in the afternoon daylight.

Templeton's sensor arrays compensated instantly, but Phil's sensitive vision was flared away for a mere fraction of a second -long enough, in this high speed chase. Nonetheless, she maintained her speed and jumped up to the countertop almost entirely by memory.

But she had lost him.

Perfectly still, she blinked and searched with her ears for what seemed an eternity.

Nothing.

Only the occasional faint splash of a repetitive water droplet.

A sound she didn't recognize.

It was coming from the sink.

She circled, seeing nothing. She circled again, accidentally triggering the garbage disposal with her tail and two of the gas burners. She was a little startled by the sudden mechanical whine of the garbage disposal, but it wasn't necessarily an unknown sound for her.

She was focused.

That little shit is right here somewhere.

In the sink, there was a fork, a coffee cup, and a half a glass of water.

And in the bottom of that water under some ice, Templeton sat perfectly still.

Phil dived for him and the glass spilled into the screaming drain, taking Templeton down.


***

CRACK! went an ice cube.

Templeton shook the moisture off, and hovered perfectly still a mere inch over the deafening roar of swinging, grinding steel teeth. He looked up into the star-shaped light -his only way out-and he saw Phil's reptilian eye. Phil, seeing Templeton, opened all four claws and poised to reach in and snatch the little interloper.

With no choice, Templeton fired his afterburners straight up.

The burners ignited the gas, and LOBO's place exploded.


***

LOBO and Ethan were both sitting on the curb. Ethan was talking to the FBI, and LOBO was petting poor Phil, who had her whiskers scorched during the tragic fire.

"Excuse me?" says Ethan into the phone.

"This call is being interrupted by RDO," said a sterile voice.

"I'm talking to the FBI. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."

"I don't know sir," says the monotone voice. "He sure is cursing a lot."

Sports with Balls

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was about 8:30 pm when the phone rang.

“LOBO?”

“What?”

“LOBO, it’s Phil Jackson.”

“Phil!” I says. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been better. We’re down by 30 points.” Phil sighs audibly. “We need you to suit up.”

“Phil, I haven’t seen my Bulls uniform since the 3-Peat.”

“I’m with the Lakers now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re in Game 2 of the Finals against the Celtics.”

“The Celtics? Wow. So Larry Bird is really handing it to you, huh?”

“Larry Bird is retired.”

“Well then Magic Johnson should totally cream them!”

“We need you LOBO.”

“But Phil, I’ve only got 29 free days left on AOL. Then those jerks are going to start chargin me.” I rub my temples thoughtfully. “Did you try good ‘ole number 23?”

“Beckham plays soccer.”

“I mean Michael Jordan.”

“Well, no. That's a good idea though. But we were really hoping you would come through.”

“Phil, you know I hate doing that. All the other players do is complain, ‘wah, LOBO jumps too high’ and ‘boo-hoo coach, I never get the ball now’. I mean it just wears on me, you know?”

“If you give Kobe the ball once or twice during the game, I’m sure he’ll be cool with it.”

“Artificially inflating another player’s stats is the equivalent of lying Phil. Why should I jeopardize my reputation of integrity by participating in something dishonest?”

“Well telling everyone I use the Triangle Offense when I actually use a rectangle was your idea.”

“Geometry doesn’t count Phil. You know that.”

[brief silence]

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I don’t think so Phil.”

[*muffled sobbing*]

“Phil. You’re going to be fine. Before you know it people will be throwin octopuses and batteries at you too. But you can’t do it with a negative attitude.”

”[*sniff*] Okay LOBO. I’ll try.”

“Atta boy Phil. Now get out there and sink some touchdowns!”

Phil

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

I awoke to dogs barking.

It’s the middle of the day, and I can sleep off a typical lawn mowing or weed whacking; I work second shift.

But “dogs barking” was fairly a-typical ambient noise.

I wake on the couch, and LOBO is riveted by an infomercial broadcast from the channel I fell asleep watching. Fitness equipment. Scripted “Human Interest” stories, fully feted with testimonials.

What could be less interesting than a ‘Human Interest’ story?

It’s hot … late June. I stumble to my feet and walk to the screen door.

Two huge dogs, a gray one and a black one, are horse-playing free in the yard across the street.

The phone rings.

“You see this shit?” says Cobe.

“Yeah,” I says into the phone. I’m a little distracted; I can’t see the street from here, and I think I can distinctly hear a mournful howl.

“Man, I think the small one is a hundred-and-ten pounds!”

Cobe has two small kids.

“Call the Pound,” I says, intrigued by the howling. “I gotta go.”

I go up to the screen door, where the two dogs are still bounding and playing in plain view.

And I’m fascinated. It’s the kinda play that a human being can envy.

And then these two little antennae stick up in the center of the botCobe of the screen door.

And then the fuckin thing went MEOW.


***

Both dogs zeroed in on the sound like sharks, and came blazing for the door.

“You slick little asshole!” laughs LOBO as he inches the door open. The cat slinks in and BANG, a dog crashes against the screen door as it closes behind.

Safe inside, the fuckin cat just stood there an howled at us.

LOBO, inexplicably, decided on the spot to call it “Phil”.

“Phil’s kinda chubby”, I says.

Phil meowed again.

“And needy, ” says LOBO.

Bang! goes another dog on the door.

LOBO dutifully scoops Phil up so he can hurl it out the back door before it pisses all over my trailer. But something in Phil’s sCobeach moved, and it freaked out LOBO completely.

“Phil, you whore!” he says. “You’re pregnant!?”

‘Phil’ was giving birth.

Now.


***

LOBO was gathering towels and boiling water as Phil settled into the fireplace, several months unused. It was a curious choice of location, but it was somewhat dark, secluded and removed.

The phone rang.

It was Cobe again.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says.

“Hey buddy,” I says distractedly. “Did you call the Pound?”

“No,” he says. His cell phone is cutting in and out, and there’s a lot of noise on the line. Traffic, maybe.

There’s a long, inordinate pause.

“What do you want Cobe?” I finally ask. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Well, I’ve been contracted to kill you,” he says coolly.

“Really?” I says, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Actually, contracted is a pretty piss-poor way to describe it. The Fat Man’s been blackmailing me since that whole cheerleader debacle … “

“Oh my fuckin God!” says LOBO. “Phil’s first baby is comin out!”

Ignoring LOBO, I focus on Cobe. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Well, I’m not killing you, am I?” says Cobe.

Suddenly there’s a loud crash.

“What the fuck was that?” asks Cobe.

“Nothing,” I says. “LOBO just fainted.”

“Oh.”

“So what exactly are you telling me, Cobe?”

“I’m telling you that you’re on the Fat Man’s shit list. Big time. He’s bad news since the divorce, and I can’t control him anymore.”

“So you’re running?”

Long pause.

“Well, it’s better than the alternative,” he says finally. I think for a minute. ‘From the hip’, I’m thinking Cobe is just a chicken-shit.

... But he really didn’t have to warn me either.

“Hey Cobe,” I says.

“What?”

“Thanks, man. Really. And good luck.”

“You too kid.”

I hung up and tossed the phone aside. With Phil pumpin out kitten number three, LOBO had fainted dead away, spilling towels and boiling water everywhere.


***

“Wake up!” I said, smacking him. There’s something about smacking LOBO that’s very therapeutic.

Pasty and pale, LOBO staggered to his feet.

“Phil’s gonna need cat food and kitty litter and all kinds of stuff, stat” I says, handing him my VISA.

LOBO, still woozy, looked a little relieved. “Okay. Kitty litter, food … “

We spent a few minutes going over a phony shopping list, and LOBO shot out to the car, narrowly avoiding the now-angry hounds. Hearing the car start, I bent down to the fireplace. ‘Phil’ was pushing out kitten number six.

And then there was a bright flash.

Like a camera flash going off, but physically hot.

I’m disoriented, and I back out of the fireplace. What the fuck was that?

I’m kinda blind. I stumble back against a counter, and work my way to my feet.

I feel sunburned.

Everything in my blinded, wayward path fell to the ground with hideous noise. Through a thick white haze, I find the front door. Fumbling with the doorknob, I throw the door wide only to find excruciating daylight. I cover my eyes completely, and follow the sounds of the car engine.

“LOBO!” I says.

No answer.

My right hand finds the hood of the car, and winds it’s way to the driver’s side door handle almost on autopilot. Forcing my eyes open briefly, I can see clear ashen silhouettes of two large dogs on the ground.

LOBO is a charred husk, staring up at me with blind, white eyes, flailing at the car’s interior.

And trying in vain to say something.

Afterglow

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

"Cancel ... my ... subscription ... to ... Highlights!" LOBO wheezed.

An then he fell over dead.



***

"'Highlights', huh?" I says. "Doesn't he subscribe to The Economist, U.S News, Scientific American, and World Report too?"

"He probably forgot," says Ethan, lighting his pipe. "He just gets those to make the mailman think he's smart."

I added them to my list. "And what about 'PETA' magazine?"

"Already cancelled. Did it when he found out that steel wool doesn't come from robot sheep."

I crossed off 'PETA subscription'.

"How’s the eulogy coming?"

The eulogy was a sore spot. "You know, Ethan? I don't appreciate you risking me getting brain damage by pulling me prematurely out of a coma because none of you jerks wanted to wax enthusiastic about that asshole ."

"We figured brain damage could only help."



***

The funeral plans were overly-complex.

For starters, we hadda find a tuxedo for a guy that never wore anything beyond Reeboks, jeans, and T-shirts bearing bumper-sticker humor. LOBO thought that "I'm With Stupid" was both a prolific literary insight to contemporary American genius, and a credit to the fashion world.

"It won't look natural at all," complained Phoebe.

"We could add some audio of him snoring," I suggested sarcastically.



***

Fortuitously, Ethan had bought shit-tons of life insurance, and were all going to the funeral in limos.

Solid gold limos.

I got sidetracked from writing the eulogy because I was just too busy coming out of a coma: everyone else, it seems, was too busy shopping. So even as I was groggily wheelchaired out of the hospital, I was already 'behind the eight ball' so to speak.

I drew out the scribbled Wal-Mart receipt, and rehearsed what I had so far.

"Brethren, we are gathered here today to celebrate the death of a habeas-corpus, as thyith frolicked with Hebrew Psalm found in The Hebrew Top 40 with hip Psalm-spinmeister Luke ‘97, yadda, yadda, yadda, Thank you for shopping at Wal-mart, Amen."

They just stared at me.

"Any questions?" I asked.

Long, awkward, dead silence.

"That's terrible," Phoebe says finally, grabbing the receipt.

"I know. But Kmart wanted four bucks for the same light bulbs."

"I mean this eulogy!" she glared.

"Yeah," says Ethan. "Jesus Christ! Can’t you ‘punch it up’ a little? You're writing an idiot's eulogy, not a Kevin Costner vehicle."

"C'mon," I says, annoyed. "The only reason we're even here making this spectacle is 'cuz you made us 1.3 million apiece with that crafty life insurance scam."

"Life Insurance Plan," Ethan corrected.

"Well," I says, taking the receipt back from Phoebe. "Any ideas?" Pencil tip to the paper, I stood alertly ready to jot all the profound new suggestions they would be completely unable to supply.

"He's probably never kicked a puppy," piped Sapphire after a long pause.

"... kicked ... a ... puppy ..." I wrote.

Phoebe was mortified. "This is what you call 'honoring the dead'?"

Ethan took Phoebe's hand in a comforting manner. "Honey," he says soothingly. "It's LOBO. No stripper in her right mind would do a funeral. It's completely tasteless--"

"This goddamn limo is huge!" yelled Beautiful White Stallion.

"--so we're doing the next-best thing by pretending to honor him," Ethan finished, scowling a the asshole horse.

"We're getting the insurance checks at the service?" I asked.

Ethan nodded. "I figured that was the only way I could get you guys to go."

An they all did the Sign of the Cross --belly, forehead, left shoulder, right shoulder-- with any nearby appendage available; the Twister game was in double-overtime.

"You think he's in Hell?" asks Sapphire.

"Jesus, lets hope so." Ethan says. Seeing the suddenly long faces, he tried to brighten things up a bit. "So you're rich now, people. What are you gonna do with all that dough?"

"Well, I'm totally sick of workin' for crazies," I breathe. "I've got an application in as a producer for Phil Specter."

"Good move," he says.

"What about you?" I ask, kinda reflexively

He frowned in serious thought, shrugging. "Well, me an Dayle got this beachfront property in Rio we've been looking at. I think I'm ready to lay out on a beach for a while. What about you, Sapphire?"

"Well, I'm getting a boob job from Ferrari for starters."

"Italy is really beautiful this time of year," Ethan approved. Everyone 'splitting the country' for a while was probably a good idea.

Phoebe was pissed. "Goddamn it people!" she demanded. "LOBO is dead. Can't we be serious for a day to pay our respects to the deceased?"

Ethan laughed. "Pay our respects to a guy who refused to send a fax on anything but bond paper?

"Or the self-proclaimed veteran of World Wars One, Two, Five, L, and pi?" I added.

"Or the only man ever arrested for wanton and reckless abuse of the Dewey Decimal System?" asked Sapphire.

"Is that a true story?" asked Phoebe.

"Supposedly," says Ethan. "I heard his mom tell it once."

"I thought LOBO was an orphan," inquired Sapphire.

"Well, that's what his parents tell everyone."

"Alright," Beautiful White Stallion demanded. "Who shit on the floor?"



***

Phil, new mother of nine, was finally up and about. Hungry, she cautiously wandered out of the fireplace, following human voices.

She was disappointed to find only a radio.

But a little more "snooping" revealed something else entirely.

Stomach growling, she followed her nose to a rather large pile of headless animal crackers under the foot of a small human bed.

And just beyond that, white sneakers, tapping non-rhythmically to the radio music.

She investigated further. There was another smell about.

Familiar.

When LOBO finally spotted Phil, he gently snatched her under the bed with him.

"Jesus Christ Phil, are you trying to get us all killed!?"

Phil purred.



***

LOBO, Phil, and all of Phil's progeny sat under the bed eating animal crackers and Cheetos as LOBO watched vigilantly from under the bed.

"Didn't you hear all that shooting, Phil?" he asked finally.

Drowsy, Phil yawned contentedly, revealing a bright orange tongue.

"Well, maybe it was fireworks. Was it July Fourth already?" He peeked at the door. "Have the French surrendered again recently?".

His eye's locked with Phil's, searching deeply in vain for Frenchitudinal Probability in the world's newest deadbeat dad.

"No matter really," he says finaly in reassurance. "Four million drunken assholes with explosives can't be wrong."

LOBO watched as a kitten --LOBO named her 'Bob'--cuddled up on Phil's belly to start nursing, pulling at her fur with tiny little paws.

"God Phil," LOBO shook his head. "You don't know shit about fatherhood, do you?"



***

When the supply of animal cracker heads ran out, it was another three days before LOBO got hungry enough to sneak into the kitchen and steal Mr. I's Cheetos.

The operation went off flawlessly; he darted back, zigzagging to avoid being an easy target for the multitude of assassins --probably ninjas-- who seemed to possess limitless ammunition.

It took six hours to come up with the plan, and about sixteen seconds to execute. Despite the seemingly deafening crackle of the Cheeto bag, no shots were fired; LOBO figured maybe he caught them all just napping. Or maybe he was just too fast and agile for them to aim at; he was after all, wearing some really expensive athletic shoes that were endorsed by some Irish guy named Shack-Eel-O'neil.

LOBO's free throws plummeted, an he got kicked out of the NBA.

But he definitely liked the shoes.

After some brief self-congratulation, he stuck to a strict ration of four Cheetos a day.

At that pace, he figured, he could stay under the bed for fifty-six days.

So after arranging fifty-six small piles of Cheetos, he returned to his silent vigil, patiently listening for the S.W.A.T. team to show up and rescue him.

Unfortunately, the smell of decapitated animal crackers and fifty-six small piles of Cheetos turns out to be irresistible to the average hungry and blind newborn kitten, and one by one they wandered in. Cats --instinctual carnivorous hunters-- prefer live prey, and had little interest in already-decapitated animal crackers. LOBO found himself alternately grabbing kittens from wandering out into the gunfire and trying to prevent them from scarfing up his meager stash of the felis domesticus' natural enemy: the Cheeto.

In a pinch, he supposed, he could always eat the cats if he had to.

But he figured the odds of Mr. Insanity having chop sticks around to be fairly slim.



***

And LOBO may have never come out were it not for that radio.

But when he heard the news story about a bibliophile purchasing a complete 17th-century collection Shakespeare’s works, he absolutely flipped.

"What the fuck?!" he says, alarming the cats as he climbed out from under the bed. "I've never even heard of this guy's blog!" Dusting himself off, he scolded Phil. "Goddamn liberals! See what happens when you have bibliophiles roamin free in the streets?"

Streaming obscenities, he steeled himself to search for the grizzly, rotting, bullet-riddled remains of Mr. Insanity: perhaps some gloating over the dead would cheer him up.

While not finding any bodies, he was wholly unprepared for what he found on the kitchen table.

On top of a stack of life insurance policies was a folded newspaper.

And inside a penciled circle, he found the obituary of David Curr.

"You bastards!" he cried, falling to his knees, sobbing. "He was so young! And so good-looking ... !"



***

Robot LOBO stood in line at the Pearly Gates, confused.

Eons of processing mortals had provided that the procedure was fairly efficient, and Saint Peter had grown pretty blasé to the whole thing.

"No, Agnes," he said into his headset, looking into a small white box on his desk. "I got a spinach pie from Trader Joe's."

He tapped his pen on the desk. "Yes, spinach," he replied after a pause.

He leaned back in the chair, rolling his eyes. "No Agnes, I do not wish them smoten for putting spinach in my pie. It's how I wanted it."

Another pause. "Yes Agnes, I've heard of cherries and blueberries. It just so happens that Trader Joe's makes a pretty darn decent spinach pie," he replied into the air. "The chicken pot pie is good too--"

Biting his lip, he glanced at his appointment list, and then up at the clock. "Agnes, you guys go ahead and order Panazzo's. I've got a full itinerary today what with the World Cup and all."

Rubbing between his closed eyes with two fingers, he motioned with a pen in his other hand. "Next," he sighed, looking up.

It took Robot LOBO a few seconds to realize he was being addressed. He approached the desk with a nervous reverence.

"Please have a seat," said Saint Peter rather automatically.

"Thank you sir," said Robot LOBO.

"Name?"

"LOBO."

Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. "Odd. You're not on the list." Turning slightly, he tapped some keys on the keyboard. "Hm. Nothing." He eyed Robot LOBO closely. "How did you die?" he asked finally.

"I have no idea, sir."

"Did Phoebe wax you? I bet Gabriel fifty bucks Phoebe would wax you."

"I don't know sir," Robot LOBO repeated.

"Hang on a second, okay?" In his chair, he swiveled his back to Robot LOBO. "Agnes?" he asked, pressing the headset into his ear. "I've got LOBO here, and he's not on my list. I've got his account up, but it's still beeping like he was still sinning ...."

A pause.

"No Agnes, he can't be streaming obscenities right now. He's sitting right in front of me, not saying a word."

"Uh, sir," Robot LOBO interjected timidly. "I'm an android based on LOBO."

Another pause. "No, Agnes, I really don't think Trader Joe's would have 'pork chop pies'." He scratches his head. "I doubt there's any such thing, actually--"

Saint Peter spun in his chair, and started clocking Robot LOBO.

"You're an android," he says, all serious as he removes his headset.

Now, this android, upgraded to V2.1, has seen some freakin’ creepy Christopher Walken movies, and Holy Freakin' Jesus, Robot LOBO was losing hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor.

["Losin' hydraulic fluid into his main recycling capacitor" is a rather rare Predator Press Technical Term: the Main Recycling Capacitor is sci-fi technology as yet incomprehensible to our feeble human minds; losin hydraulic fluid in it is the equivalent of needing to change your shorts after gettin glared at by Christopher Walken if you were a robot. It's all scientific.]

Saint Peter's eyebrows furrowed. He leaned back in the chair, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.

He had the look of 'being onto someone's bullshit'.

"So," begins Saint Peter. "You're essentially a clone of someone that never had a soul in the first place." He grinned. Jesus Christ, he thought, This could get me a few thousand years of vacation!

"Actually," interjected Robot LOBO, "It took a lot of programming to come up with and develop a robot completely devoid of a soul. Bill Gates invested eight million dollars in it, in a collaborative venture with RDO." He paused politely. "In fact, I'm one of the prototypes."

"Bill Gates," Saint Peter laughed. "What a dumb ass." He spun the monitor at Robot LOBO, and Robot LOBO saw the Apple trademark.

Oh my God I am so screwed, he thought.

Primer

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Templeton -who had only narrowly escaped the garbage deposal- had affixed himself to the back of Phil's rabies tag.

There, Phil couldn't find him.

And LOBO -who always assumed the tag to be some sort of symbol of Phil's commitment to Jewish faith- was never willing to do anything that would be religiously intolerant; he chose only to read Bible passages too loudly as Phil slept, and occasionally squirting her with a Super-Soaker full of Holy water shouting 'The Power of Christ Compels You!'

But LOBO, a Catholic, had long since resigned himself to the fact that Phil was going to burn for eternity in the Lake of Fire at this point.

Attached firmly to a deadly predator owned by a complete idiot, and surrounded by millions of the horny and carnivorous man-eating Cicada Brood VIII, Templeton figured he was momentarily safe.

Until he intercepted Sapphire's transmission to RDO.

In order to save Humanity, she argued, they were going to have to nuke Pianosa into a crater.

And then nuke the crater.

And then airlift the crater over the Atlantic Ocean, and nuke it a few more times while dropping it in.

Templeton snuck a peak from behind Phil's collar. Having finally run out of 'Food Delivery' options in the Yellow Pages that were still answering the phone, LOBO was in the kitchen trying to boil one of my frozen pot pies.

Needless to say, it burst into flames.

Eh, Templeton figured, it was a good run.

Killswitch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.

Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.

The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.

It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.

She’s had a rough week.

Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...

I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.

Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?

Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.


***

The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.

Last year, there were more than 16,000.

I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.

So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.

So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.

I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?

Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?

I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.

That'll learn 'im.

Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.

The Truth About the Rat Race

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

As LOBO was being arrested, Templeton peered out from under Phil’s rabies tag.

Phil, LOBO’s cat, was reading extreme signs of stress. And if Phil somehow didn’t find her way back into LOBO’s custody, poof, RDO's entire mission was a failure.

Baking in the 120 degree heat of the sunbathed car, Phil barely noticed as Templeton took flight through the cat cage bars. And perched on the bottom of the steering wheel, Templeton scanned through all data he had on internal combustion engines.

LOBO was already handcuffed and in the back seat of the squad car, but the Chick Magnet’s engine was still running; rolling down all the electric windows -the most important thing- was mere child’s play. The car would go down forty degrees within minutes.

But how was Templeton to save Phil from starvation?

Contemplating this thoughtfully, Templeton flew out the window to seek human aid, only to be promptly struck by a fateful sports car at 220 MPH. The impact ruptured the car’s radiator almost completely on impact, and caused it to limp woundedly aside less than a mile ahead.

The driver was racing from New Jersey to Las Vegas on a highly illegal and lucrative bet, and was suddenly in desperate need for an available vehicle.

And that’s how they met Jimmy Orlando.

Don't Blink

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.

“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.

“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”

“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”

Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"

“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.

“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”

I'm puzzled.

“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.

“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."

“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”

“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."

”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”

“What?” I says, startled.

“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"

"What?"

Predator Press Interviews: Joyce Hopewell

Predator Press

Joyce Hopewell enters the studio, and I am immediately freaked out: she's wearing flowing long white sungod-esque robes and a leafy Caesar headband woven in delicate strands of gold.

Without word, she sits.

Joyce Hopewell: It's nice to see you too, LOBO. I'm fine.

LOBO: Joyce! How nice to see you again. How have you been?

Joyce Hopewell: I require no assistance.

LOBO: Would you like one of our techs to hook you up so we can begin the interview?

[A headset microphone floats toward her, and the switchboard modulators adjust themselves noisily.]

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, you haven't gotten that mole checked out yet, have you?

LOBO: I don't go for all that medical hocus-pocus stuff. God is real strict about witchcraft. He throws all those heathens in a vat of flaming acid for 10,000 years ... and speaking of Eternal Damnation, how is this whole 'Astrology' thing going for you?

Joyce Hopewell: I have gained knowledge and wisdom of things your tiny, callow mind could never appreciate.

LOBO: Wow. So how do you get those butterflies to keep fluttering around you? All I get is regular flies.

Joyce Hopewell: Seriously. You need to get that mole checked out.

LOBO: I read the post where you did a Chart on Ricky Hatton, the Champion Boxer. I thought it was great. What could you reveal about me?

Joyce Hopewell: You want me to do your chart?

LOBO: No. I mean if I fought Ricky Hatton.

Joyce Hopewell: He would kill you.

LOBO: Seriously? At his age?

Joyce Hopewell: You know your plan to mug Santa Christmas Eve?

LOBO: Yeah.

Joyce Hopewell: Santa will kill you.

LOBO: Dammit!

Joyce Hopewell: Do you want to know what happens next time you forget to feed Phil?

LOBO: What?

Joyce Hopewell: She will kill you. And Phil is a girl by the way.

LOBO: Really? I was just giving Phil his privacy.

Joyce Hopewell: You've had her for three years.

LOBO: You are joking, right?

Joyce Hopewell: LOBO, Phil has nipples.

LOBO: I have nipples.

Joyce Hopewell: Eight of them?
LOBO: Maybe it's a gene defect. I could easily have them removed by the vet.

Joyce Hopewell: Speaking of medical attention, would you please get that mole checked out?

LOBO: What mole?

Joyce Hopewell: Stop thinking about Britney Spears.

LOBO: There's nothing more depressing than your first Christmas after a divorce. And now her sister is pregnant too.

Joyce Hopewell: Her sister isn't pregnant.

LOBO: You mean on top of all that, her uterus is busted?

The Great Al Fresco

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.

Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?

I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"

Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.

"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"10:30 in the morning," says the man.

"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"

"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."

I pause. "Really?"

"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"

"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."

"Of course sir," he says.

"How much do you charge?"

"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."

"Deal," I says.

"Can I start now?"

"Absolutely," I says.

This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.


***

Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.

Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.

"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."

Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.

His back arched up.

What the hell?

I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.

Al shovels another load of dirt.

Phil growls.

I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.

And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.

Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.

Cicadas.

--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.

Brood XIII.

Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.

Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.

Thousands.

Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.

Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.

I speed-dial number "1".

"Yes," says a voice.

"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."

"Why?"

"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"

Insomnia

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Phil can't sleep.

And as a consequence, neither can I.

Yes, I know cats are naturally nocturnal. But I've had Phil for about a year now, and usually he's pretty content and peaceful at night. Lately he's just so fidgety; in and out of bed, meowing at absolutely nothing ... I just don't get it.

This is becoming a problem; I absolutely need eight hours of sleep at night -as well as four or five during the day- or I can't function at all.

Whatever angst and anxieties are riddling Phil are slowly deteriorating my vice-like grip on sanity; often in the quiet darkness, I swear I hear a soft, tinny voice repeatedly asking for someone named 'Templeton', followed by another, doggedly replying "Hola!"

But that's nothing; last night Phil was curled up on my pillow and I heard a full-on conversation:

Voice: Templeton?

Other Voice: Buenas noches!

Voice: Ah, hmmm ... Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?

Other Voice: Si. Yo comprendo.

Voice: ¿Habla usted inglés?

Other Voice: No.

Voice: Hablo un poco español. ¿Dónde esta el baño?

Other Voice: ¿Cómo?

Voice: Un momento.

Other Voice: Está Bien; Muy bien.

Goddamn it, this goes on for hours.

Chinks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late.  But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week.  The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants.  Today is the real deal.

But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.

I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest.  She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway.  Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me.  With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.

For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint.  Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress.  Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.

"How many keys do you need?" she asks.  "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."

"Just one."

She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed.  "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"

"I'm divorced," I kinda lie.  My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be.  For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen.  But either way, the marriage is moot.

The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.

Is she flirting with me? I thought.

Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.

Eyes are bright, but kinda sad.  Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...

But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.

No visible tattoos.  Great complexion -possibly vegan.  Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...

-Apparently I hate fish.

No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"

So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out.  He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.

So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?

Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.

Bingo.

 

***

The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive.  A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.

I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big.  Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse.   But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.

Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet.  He has wide shoulders and skinny legs.  His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."

"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.

"Sure!" I says.

I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.

I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.

"Here we are," he explains.

I am skeptical.

"What can you film here?" I ask innocently.  "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"

"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"

It's Official: I Hate Everyone

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I get really really mad at my cat Phil sometimes.

-And sure, every house gets the occasional fly.

But when you own a cat, doesn’t it seem incumbent upon them not to have flies in your house?

I only bring this up because moments ago I’m skimming blogs and drinking coffee –as is my morning routine- and a fly landed on my hand. I slapped at it, but the quick little bastard zigzagged off somewhere.

Phil, at the base of my desk chair, is giving me a migraine meowing.

“No!” I says to her. “Didn’t you see that fly land on my hand? I’m not feeding you for an hour, you damned freeloading moocher!”

To underline this sweeping new policy I take a huge swig of coffee, and realize there’s a fairly large and fuzzy foreign object in my mouthful.

I found the fly.

“Oh yeah Miss Smartypants?" I says moments later to a disappointed Phil, wiping my chin. "Well it’ll take me at least an hour to get all that coffee off of my monitor!”

Fast Lane

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Son," says the officer. "I've got you clocked at 240 miles per hour in a 35. Would you care to explain to me why you are driving over 200 miles per hour?"

"This is a medical emergency," I says. "And we need a police escort."

"Really?" He glances over to the passenger side and sees Phil's cat cage, chained and padlocked to the passenger seat.

"Yes," I says. "He's due for kidney testing today because he was eating IAMS a few months ago. We either go to the Pianosa Veterinarian Hospital or he dies. The hospital will sue me, I will sue IAMS, IAMS will sue China, and then China will wipe out Tibet. Now sir, are you prepared to have your fine performance record with The Force blemished with an international incident?"

"How about you just explain to me how you were going 240 miles per hour in a 1990 Plymouth Horizon?"

"It's actually a 2008 Porsche Panamera with custom-fitted removable vintage Plymouth Horizon panels."

"No shit?" says the cop.

"These weather-beaten fenders alone cost me $6,400. Those finely crafted dents in the door and on the hood were meticulously hammered in by hard-working industrious Brazilians. The interior is Corinthian leather, and oiled by genuine imported crushed bald eagles. The rusty discoloration is manufactured in Venice for $1,800 --the dust is about $8 an ounce. The left headlight has all the Blaupunkt stereo components, and the left has a death ray that On Star won't activate until I get a credit card."

I lovingly pat the primer hood, and the rearview mirror falls off.

"Breakaway mirrors increase aerodynamic efficiency," I explain.

"Did you know you're dragging your muffler?"

"That's a safety feature."

"Slows the car down?"

"No, the grinding squeal alerts other drivers to my presence, and the sparks increase my visibility."

"This all seems like a long way to go to keep your car from getting stolen."

"Well, I've always preferred to leave it unlocked and with the keys in it and my wallet sitting on the dashboard next to the loaded pistol," I reflect.

"Loaded pistol?"

"Knocking out those red lights in town has increased my fuel efficiency 8%."

"And it's never been stolen?"

"Oh, sure it has. All the time, in fact. But they always come back once they encounter the anti-theft technology: the Corinthian leather is flaked with hi-tech razor-sharp edges, and the battery doesn't last two hours."

"May I see your license and registration please?"

"I'm sorry officer. I would love to comply, but Phil and I are granted diplomatic immunity by the LOBOnian Consulate." I says.

"The what?"

"The LOBOnian Consulate," I elaborate. "An elite group of dignitaries that manage all affairs of the entire vast country of LOBOnia."

"Who are they?" asks the cop.

"Me an Phil."

LOBO Goes to Jail

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

The old man just stared at me.

I was feeling chatty. "Then, check this out. I figured if I was going to go through with the whole 'telling the cop to go fuck himself' thing, I was basically clearing my schedule for the afternoon. So I speed-dial Phil's vet to cancel his appointment, right? The chick on the phone is concerned that Phil will be left in the car when it gets towed. She says 'Sir, please make sure you call someone to come get your dog'."

The creepy guy just kept staring.

"My dog?" I says. "I mean my vet thinks Phil is a dog. What a dumbass. No wonder they think he's a girl!"

"Sir," asks the Judge. "Will you please sit so we can begin the proceedings?"

"We haven't started?"


***

"And that's what happened," I says. "I don't really understand what the big deal is."

"LOBO," says Babs over the phone. "Please don't tell me you used your one phone call to call me."

"Actually, I used that to order a pizza. I'm fucking starved."

"What do you want?" she twists the Rec Room payphone wire into a loop roughly the size of my neck.

"I want to break us out," I says.

"But we're in different prisons," she says.

"Doesn't matter. What we need is some way to make a bomb. I learned how to do it from watching an episode of MacGyver ."

"I'm listening."

"All I need is a paper clip and a tampon."

"How are you going to get a tampon in prison?"

"Well, that's where you come in," I says. "But first, can you spare one?"

"Let me get this straight," she says. "You need me to break out of my prison, and break into yours to bring you a tampon."

"You'll have to be fast," I says. "You'll have to back in your prison by the time it's discovered that I'm missing."

"You do realize that prison officials monitor these phone calls."

"I hope so," I says. "I bet they got paper clips."

My City is Gone

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Before I do a post on Mark A. Rayner's newest and seminal work -the one starring me- I should probably explain where I've been for the past month.

See, every once in a while the Earth tries to kill me. But the problem is that I'm on Earth, and the Earth is dumb and has pisspoor aim. World War II, Chernobyl, Paris Hilton, September 11, Katrina, … the list of the Earth's inept, bungled efforts to murder me is virtually endless.

But this time the Earth tried something uncharacteristically clever. A month ago, watching Thursday Night Football peacefully from my basement apartment, I heard commotion upstairs. Assuming the couple living above were in a particularly virulent argument, I did what every hero does: I turned the television up to drown it out.

When the door –out of my field of vision- got kicked in, I was annoyed. When four flashlight beams swirled in, I was confused. When the SWAT team captain's boot was suddenly on my neck, I was indignant. “I am the Senior LOBOian Ambassador to the United States! A national treasure. My blog readers will not stand for this! Your badges will be shoved up your asses so far they'll be mistaken as dental work-!”

Clearly they weren't Predator Press readers. When I came to, the bleeding had slowed considerably. Handcuffed to a chair, I wondered furiously why you people hadn't rescued me yet -it was, after all, one measly SWAT team. Some of them weren't even carrying automatic weapons, preferring shotguns instead. Have all the millions and millions Predator Press readers gone soft?

I would not learn until later the Earth was way ahead of us this time. She had distracted you all with a rather diabolic diversion: Superstorm Sandy. Now I love you readers. Seriously. But when a natural disaster occurs, nobody stops to think that maybe it's an elaborate plot to kill LOBO? That's the oldest trick in the book! You people better start thinking these things through.

So I was brought in for questioning. Supposedly, roughly ten pounds of marijuana and twenty guns were found on the premises -all of which I was completely oblivious. I had a separate entrance to the house, through the garage to my basement apartment. I didn't have keys to the upstairs. Utterly unhelpful, they released me to walk twenty two miles home in the freezing cold to a totally trashed apartment. Phil II, obviously rattled by the search and seizure, hissed as I assessed the situation.

The place was sacked. All “recording devices” were confiscated.

This unfortunately included my computers and cellphone.

I had no access to my fantasy football team.

-I had no access to porn!

And things got somehow got worse. I wasn't on the lease, so Phil II and I were technically trespassing. While I desperately searched for an apartment, the homeowner was essentially looting the place of valuable televisions and electronics, and would change the locks while I was at work. So for three weeks I would randomly come “home” locked out. But I had an ID reflecting my address, so the locksmiths would just let me right back in at $75 a pop. The next day I would have to spring Phil II out of the Humane Society at $40 a pop. And indeed I had a visceral joy perplexing the landlord with continued access, and how the evil cat, farmed away, would mysteriously return despite their effort.

I am building a new city now.

A Little Dumber Boy

Predator Press

[Mr I]

Twas three weeks before Christmas in the vast ICU,
and there I sit pensive, watching Cobe turn blue.
Phil was strapped firmly to the gurney with care,
a big ‘X’ on her chest marked the scalpels’ crosshair.

LOBO is locked in the trunk of my car
streaming obscenities for being captured afar;
Thank God for Ethan and his cool tracking gear,
and that LOBO's so dumb, the "Christmas Card" thing works every year.

Then all through the place there arose such a clatter
I sprung up from bedside to see what’s the matter;
Those clickings and whirs were burned in our heads:
The cybernetic sounds of Brad Pitt’s stolen legs!

Santa sneaks in with his hand to his lips
telling us “Shh”. He smiles --with his hat gives a tip--
and out from his bag, he pulls out a light
that slips to Cobe’s chest, closing it tight.

Cobe sits up, rubs his eyes as do we;
He’s alive, well and grinning at Phil, Santa and me!

Well, we know it’s not Christmas, but we wish you well now
(--non-denominational Phil, of course, just says meow.)

Go Fighty!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

(I should probably get her spayed.)

Ragnarök

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.

My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.

At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.

Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?

SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.

And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?

I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.

But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!

Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.

Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.

But why?

Phil Runs Afoul

Predator Press

[LOBO]



A victim of a five year plan to kidnap him, I have lost my sidekick.

:(