Predator Press
[LOBO]
I have never been hit so hard.
Seriously.
You know how your whole head lights up and you smell this almost-electrical bone and blood smell, and then you're just completely gone?
That Phoebe has a mean left hook.
Please don't let ... Orlando ... administer ... CPR ...
Wednesday
Tuesday
Disorientation
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Fritz!" Jimmy Orlando wailed, falling to his knees at the news. "Oh my God, not Fritz!"
"Who is Fritz?" LOBO whispers to Brighta.
"Fritz was Jimmy's," he does quote marks in the air with his fingers, "Life Partner."
"Well what happened to the poor bastard?"
"He was the Commander of the Johnson, and killed in the line of duty during a recent troop deployment. Didn't you see any of this in the news?"
"Uh," I says. "Nope."
A prostrate Jimmy Orlando, heaving loud sobs as he wept, was absolutely uncontrollable with grief. Princess Phoebe held him, rocking slowly and drying his tears with a tissue.
I nudged him with my foot. "Dude, if you keep blubbering like this, people are going to think you're gay or something."
[LOBO]
"Fritz!" Jimmy Orlando wailed, falling to his knees at the news. "Oh my God, not Fritz!"
"Who is Fritz?" LOBO whispers to Brighta.
"Fritz was Jimmy's," he does quote marks in the air with his fingers, "Life Partner."
"Well what happened to the poor bastard?"
"He was the Commander of the Johnson, and killed in the line of duty during a recent troop deployment. Didn't you see any of this in the news?"
"Uh," I says. "Nope."
A prostrate Jimmy Orlando, heaving loud sobs as he wept, was absolutely uncontrollable with grief. Princess Phoebe held him, rocking slowly and drying his tears with a tissue.
I nudged him with my foot. "Dude, if you keep blubbering like this, people are going to think you're gay or something."
Orientation
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
I thought maybe I could help Max 'acclimate' to his new world by explaining his predecessor to some degree. LOBO's itinerary included picking up his repaired lawn mower from Sears, so I tried to offer some insights and observations on the way.
Fascinated by the modern and alien surroundings, Max didn't say a word until we were at the counter. "This LOBO character doesn't sound very responsible. I'm a little impressed that he even owns a lawn mower."
"Me too," I admitted. "Especially since he ripped out the lawn two years ago and laid down green linoleum. Now once or twice a month he just hoses the beer cans off into the gutter."
The clerk wheeled out the new-looking John Deere. "There's no charge," says the guy. "Tell LOBO that this mower will last for years if he stops using it to make daiquiri ice. The only thing wrong with it was a defective diaphragm. It was messing up the fuel intake."
I looked at Max waiting.
Max looked back at me, confused.
"This is where LOBO would say something like 'See, I'm so virile my lawn mower needs a diaphragm'."
This is going to be tough. I can tell.
[Mr. Insanity]
I thought maybe I could help Max 'acclimate' to his new world by explaining his predecessor to some degree. LOBO's itinerary included picking up his repaired lawn mower from Sears, so I tried to offer some insights and observations on the way.
Fascinated by the modern and alien surroundings, Max didn't say a word until we were at the counter. "This LOBO character doesn't sound very responsible. I'm a little impressed that he even owns a lawn mower."
"Me too," I admitted. "Especially since he ripped out the lawn two years ago and laid down green linoleum. Now once or twice a month he just hoses the beer cans off into the gutter."
The clerk wheeled out the new-looking John Deere. "There's no charge," says the guy. "Tell LOBO that this mower will last for years if he stops using it to make daiquiri ice. The only thing wrong with it was a defective diaphragm. It was messing up the fuel intake."
I looked at Max waiting.
Max looked back at me, confused.
"This is where LOBO would say something like 'See, I'm so virile my lawn mower needs a diaphragm'."
This is going to be tough. I can tell.
Monday
Pedigree
Predator Press
[LOBO]
First of all, my ex-wife is a magnificent woman, and I hope that she is enjoying the happiness that she deserves.
And notably, I was briefly in Hell. So --what with the time distortion and all-- I had an eternity to rethink the whole relationship over and over, to try to find some way to make amends for being a total and complete insensitive bastard the entire time: If you see her, please tell her that I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry.
And if it's any consolation, this bodyswitching crap hurts more than it did either time Tupac shot me.
I fumbled and staggered to stand and look in the mirror. Strangely, "CONAN the BARBARIAN" was scrawled accross the top.
Well, I thought. At least this guy is almost as buff as me.
After a few long moments, Princess Phoebe piped up. "Brighta, why is Max flexing at the Arnold Schwarzenegger poster?"
[LOBO]
First of all, my ex-wife is a magnificent woman, and I hope that she is enjoying the happiness that she deserves.
And notably, I was briefly in Hell. So --what with the time distortion and all-- I had an eternity to rethink the whole relationship over and over, to try to find some way to make amends for being a total and complete insensitive bastard the entire time: If you see her, please tell her that I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry.
And if it's any consolation, this bodyswitching crap hurts more than it did either time Tupac shot me.
I fumbled and staggered to stand and look in the mirror. Strangely, "CONAN the BARBARIAN" was scrawled accross the top.
Well, I thought. At least this guy is almost as buff as me.
After a few long moments, Princess Phoebe piped up. "Brighta, why is Max flexing at the Arnold Schwarzenegger poster?"
Vexed in Biolence
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Our email read:
"Dear Boss,
Everything is great. We balanced the budget: even excluding the eight cents made in May, you stand to make around two hundred thousand a year starting now.
All bills are already paid. In fact, we paid the next four years of Predator Press taxes in advance.
There's not much to do except count all this money over and over. Sapphire got a tattoo, but we already wrote it off in 2008.
We were hoping for the office Christmas party in the Cayman Islands this year.
Sincerely,
The remaining Predator Press Staff"
***
Ethan's eyebrows furrowed ... the email clearly smelled of Pina Coladas and sunscreen.
He pushed himself back from the desk and rubbed his temples under stylish, reflective, interactive x-ray vision sunglasses.
"A profit?" he wondered aloud.
"What the hell happened to LOBO?"
[Mr. Insanity]
Our email read:
"Dear Boss,
Everything is great. We balanced the budget: even excluding the eight cents made in May, you stand to make around two hundred thousand a year starting now.
All bills are already paid. In fact, we paid the next four years of Predator Press taxes in advance.
There's not much to do except count all this money over and over. Sapphire got a tattoo, but we already wrote it off in 2008.
We were hoping for the office Christmas party in the Cayman Islands this year.
Sincerely,
The remaining Predator Press Staff"
Ethan's eyebrows furrowed ... the email clearly smelled of Pina Coladas and sunscreen.
He pushed himself back from the desk and rubbed his temples under stylish, reflective, interactive x-ray vision sunglasses.
"A profit?" he wondered aloud.
"What the hell happened to LOBO?"
Sunday
Predatory Nature
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Sure enough. After two and a half years of more-or-less innocent blogging, LOBO makes an ex-wife joke during a séance and here comes Satan.
"LOBO" says Satan, well-fanged multiple heads swinging, snapping at him from all angles.
"I put the toilet seat down!" cried LOBO, shielding his eyes from the furious, bloodthirsty tempest.
Satan paused. "I'M NOT YOUR EX WIFE, DUMBASS."
LOBO cautiously peeked through his fingers at the scaly, seven-headed thing dripping blood from jagged teeth. "Oh thank Jesus God!" he says. "You really had me going there."
"YOU HAVE INVOKED AN EX-WIFE JOKE, AND HAVE THUSLY INSULTED MY ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR OF MARKETING WHO REPORTS DIRECTLY TO JOSEF STALIN."
"Is Marilyn Monroe still hot--?"
"SILENCE!" Satan demanded. "AS YOU HAVE SINNED, I CAN FULFIL THE DEAL WITH MAXIMILLAIN HECTORUS DEXALLIUM. HAVING SOLD HIS SOUL FOR THE HAPPINESS OF PRINCESS PHOEBE, YOU WILL NOW EXCHANGE BODIES AND LIVE HAPPILY FOREVERAFTER."
"Does he have high speed internet?"
"YES, BUT HE USES A MACINTOSH."
LOBO screamed.
[Mr. Insanity]
Sure enough. After two and a half years of more-or-less innocent blogging, LOBO makes an ex-wife joke during a séance and here comes Satan.
"LOBO" says Satan, well-fanged multiple heads swinging, snapping at him from all angles.
"I put the toilet seat down!" cried LOBO, shielding his eyes from the furious, bloodthirsty tempest.
Satan paused. "I'M NOT YOUR EX WIFE, DUMBASS."
LOBO cautiously peeked through his fingers at the scaly, seven-headed thing dripping blood from jagged teeth. "Oh thank Jesus God!" he says. "You really had me going there."
"YOU HAVE INVOKED AN EX-WIFE JOKE, AND HAVE THUSLY INSULTED MY ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR OF MARKETING WHO REPORTS DIRECTLY TO JOSEF STALIN."
"Is Marilyn Monroe still hot--?"
"SILENCE!" Satan demanded. "AS YOU HAVE SINNED, I CAN FULFIL THE DEAL WITH MAXIMILLAIN HECTORUS DEXALLIUM. HAVING SOLD HIS SOUL FOR THE HAPPINESS OF PRINCESS PHOEBE, YOU WILL NOW EXCHANGE BODIES AND LIVE HAPPILY FOREVERAFTER."
"Does he have high speed internet?"
"YES, BUT HE USES A MACINTOSH."
LOBO screamed.
Saturday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
So we're all holding hands in a small circle.
"Jim," asks LOBO into the darkness. "Are you there?"
"Yes," says Legless Jim. "I'm holding your fucking hand, you idiot!"
LOBO gasps. "It really is Jim! Nobody other than Jim would know that I'm an idiot."
We all opened an eye and looked at each other.
"Jiiiiiiiimmmm," LOBO says with a ghostly Scooby Doo waiver in his voice. "We are calling from the land of the liviiiing ..."
"Yeah, if you say so," says Jim between Fritos.
"So is Marilyn Monroe still hot?"
"I guess," Jim shrugged. "If you're into skinny white chicks." Getting up, he slipped LOBO's hand into Sapphire's and headed for the kitchen. "Is there any more beer?"
"Jiiiiimmm," says LOBO. "You're fadiiiing away from us. Are you going towards the light?"
Jim grabs a beer. "Hey!" he says. "This is fuckin warm--"
"Oh my God Jim," says Sapphire, suddenly crushing LOBO's hand. "Stay away from the light!"
"Go to the light!" LOBO insists, wincing in pain. "And tell my ex-wife I said 'hey'!"
[Mr. Insanity]
So we're all holding hands in a small circle.
"Jim," asks LOBO into the darkness. "Are you there?"
"Yes," says Legless Jim. "I'm holding your fucking hand, you idiot!"
LOBO gasps. "It really is Jim! Nobody other than Jim would know that I'm an idiot."
We all opened an eye and looked at each other.
"Jiiiiiiiimmmm," LOBO says with a ghostly Scooby Doo waiver in his voice. "We are calling from the land of the liviiiing ..."
"Yeah, if you say so," says Jim between Fritos.
"So is Marilyn Monroe still hot?"
"I guess," Jim shrugged. "If you're into skinny white chicks." Getting up, he slipped LOBO's hand into Sapphire's and headed for the kitchen. "Is there any more beer?"
"Jiiiiimmm," says LOBO. "You're fadiiiing away from us. Are you going towards the light?"
Jim grabs a beer. "Hey!" he says. "This is fuckin warm--"
"Oh my God Jim," says Sapphire, suddenly crushing LOBO's hand. "Stay away from the light!"
"Go to the light!" LOBO insists, wincing in pain. "And tell my ex-wife I said 'hey'!"
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Too depressed to even defile any graves, LOBO wailed over Legless Jim's coffin. "Why?" he sobbed at the empty sky. "Why Jim? He was such a good guy. Young, vibrant ... so full of life and love! He had so much to contribute."
I put my hand on his shoulder, and for a second, his tearful eye met mine. Then he turned and shook his fist upward, "Couldn't you take Mr Insanity instead? I mean he's actually on the payroll ...!"
***
The Chick Magnet wouldn't start, so Sapphire drove LOBO, Legless Jim and I home. Legless Jim rode shotgun; he was developing a thing for the girl.
"It'll never work," LOBO whispers to me. "She might be a malfunctioning psychotic robot, but even with Brad Pitt's legs I don't think necrophilia is among her vast repertoire of neurosi and insecurities."
"'Vast repertoire--'?!" says Sapphire, slamming on the brakes.
"Hey," LOBO continues. "It's not my fault you're a psychological wasteland of irrational thought processes--"
Sapphire glared at him through the mirror for a moment in complete disbelief. Then, the overhead light came on as she opened the door.
"What he's trying to say," Legless Jim added, thinking quickly, "is that you are a very attractive woman that's just having an unlucky run right now."
She paused.
"Yeah," says LOBO. "You're a totally hot babe. There's absolutely no reason you shouldn't be beating guys off with both hands."
"We're going to be late for the séance if we don't get moving," I says, nervously close to the man who would soon be turned into a smoldering crater.
"Séance?" says LOBO, alarmed.
Sapphire shut the door, and activates the door locks, smiling coyly.
"Yeah," I says. "We're going to try to contact Legless Jim from the other side."
LOBO shrunk in his seat. "We're going to contact the dead?"
"Yes," says Sapphire, grinning. "Haven't done anything to piss off the dead lately, have you?"
LOBO couldn't hear.
He was loudly trying to chew his way through the car door.
[Mr. Insanity]
Too depressed to even defile any graves, LOBO wailed over Legless Jim's coffin. "Why?" he sobbed at the empty sky. "Why Jim? He was such a good guy. Young, vibrant ... so full of life and love! He had so much to contribute."
I put my hand on his shoulder, and for a second, his tearful eye met mine. Then he turned and shook his fist upward, "Couldn't you take Mr Insanity instead? I mean he's actually on the payroll ...!"
The Chick Magnet wouldn't start, so Sapphire drove LOBO, Legless Jim and I home. Legless Jim rode shotgun; he was developing a thing for the girl.
"It'll never work," LOBO whispers to me. "She might be a malfunctioning psychotic robot, but even with Brad Pitt's legs I don't think necrophilia is among her vast repertoire of neurosi and insecurities."
"'Vast repertoire--'?!" says Sapphire, slamming on the brakes.
"Hey," LOBO continues. "It's not my fault you're a psychological wasteland of irrational thought processes--"
Sapphire glared at him through the mirror for a moment in complete disbelief. Then, the overhead light came on as she opened the door.
"What he's trying to say," Legless Jim added, thinking quickly, "is that you are a very attractive woman that's just having an unlucky run right now."
She paused.
"Yeah," says LOBO. "You're a totally hot babe. There's absolutely no reason you shouldn't be beating guys off with both hands."
"We're going to be late for the séance if we don't get moving," I says, nervously close to the man who would soon be turned into a smoldering crater.
"Séance?" says LOBO, alarmed.
Sapphire shut the door, and activates the door locks, smiling coyly.
"Yeah," I says. "We're going to try to contact Legless Jim from the other side."
LOBO shrunk in his seat. "We're going to contact the dead?"
"Yes," says Sapphire, grinning. "Haven't done anything to piss off the dead lately, have you?"
LOBO couldn't hear.
He was loudly trying to chew his way through the car door.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Receiving the news of Legless Jim's untimely death came as quite a shock.
Especially to Legless Jim.
"But I'm not dead," he would insist.
I took it really hard.
I couldn't even gloat.
Walking out to the Chick Magnet, my badass ride, I just sort of collapsed against the primered 1990 Plymouth Horizon. And for a long, quiet moment of serious mortal self-reflection, I writhed in the excruciating pain of tragic loss.
"But I'm not dead, dumbass!" says poor old Lifeless, Legless Jim.
His obituary was featured in the Las Vegas Times --along with the 1999 other brave heroes lost in the Russian invasion-- on page 53 of the People section.
My "WWID" license plate obscured in comet-like dust behind my car, Legless Joe incessantly badgered me the whole way to the funeral, completely wrecking my somber, agonized grief.
It's a good thing this disrespectful fuck is already dead, I thought.
[LOBO]
Receiving the news of Legless Jim's untimely death came as quite a shock.
Especially to Legless Jim.
"But I'm not dead," he would insist.
I took it really hard.
I couldn't even gloat.
Walking out to the Chick Magnet, my badass ride, I just sort of collapsed against the primered 1990 Plymouth Horizon. And for a long, quiet moment of serious mortal self-reflection, I writhed in the excruciating pain of tragic loss.
"But I'm not dead, dumbass!" says poor old Lifeless, Legless Jim.
His obituary was featured in the Las Vegas Times --along with the 1999 other brave heroes lost in the Russian invasion-- on page 53 of the People section.
My "WWID" license plate obscured in comet-like dust behind my car, Legless Joe incessantly badgered me the whole way to the funeral, completely wrecking my somber, agonized grief.
It's a good thing this disrespectful fuck is already dead, I thought.
Thursday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO was so dejected from his court martial, Legless Jim and I were at a complete loss as to what to do with him.
Ultimately, we hadda take him by a cemetery to cheer him up.
"Pisspoor prototypes!" he cried happily when we arrived.
"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr 'Nuclear Engineer 1964-2003'?" he would demand, kicking over the tombstone. Then he would move to the next one. "Hm, Louis Pasteur ... I'll bet curing typhoid fever won't save you from this, you now-worthless dead fuck!"
It's good to see him happy again.
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO was so dejected from his court martial, Legless Jim and I were at a complete loss as to what to do with him.
Ultimately, we hadda take him by a cemetery to cheer him up.
"Pisspoor prototypes!" he cried happily when we arrived.
"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr 'Nuclear Engineer 1964-2003'?" he would demand, kicking over the tombstone. Then he would move to the next one. "Hm, Louis Pasteur ... I'll bet curing typhoid fever won't save you from this, you now-worthless dead fuck!"
It's good to see him happy again.
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO faced his court martial with rather uncharacteristic dignity.
"So let me get this straight," says General Hamms. "In order to defend the US from a Russian invasion, you wrecked a 35 trillion dollar war vessel."
"No," says LOBO adamantly. "The superintelligent giant squid did."
"It says here you let him drive."
"I didn't have a crew. Legless Jim ran out of Martini olives, and everybody was ready to mutiny."
Gasps rippled throughout the courtroom.
General Hamms points at the court reporter. "Let the records show that the defendant --former Brigadier General LOBO-- has admitted under oath that he left the US Warship Johnson negligently out of Martini olives under his command!"
"Order! Order!" demands the Judge, banging his gavel in a feeble effort to reclaim decorum under the booing and hissing. "Mr. Curr, how do you plead?"
"Guilty," he says. "I fucking hate olives almost as much as I hate those little supremacist Cheerios. Both of them exploited the Spaghettio, and made 'em run casinos." He paused dramatically. "Can't we all just be a grey quazi tomatoe-pasta pizza topping that stays crunchy in milk?"
And so General Hamms ceremoniously tore the bars, stripes and stars away from LOBO's notoriously-itchy uniform.
[Mr. Insanity]
LOBO faced his court martial with rather uncharacteristic dignity.
"So let me get this straight," says General Hamms. "In order to defend the US from a Russian invasion, you wrecked a 35 trillion dollar war vessel."
"No," says LOBO adamantly. "The superintelligent giant squid did."
"It says here you let him drive."
"I didn't have a crew. Legless Jim ran out of Martini olives, and everybody was ready to mutiny."
Gasps rippled throughout the courtroom.
General Hamms points at the court reporter. "Let the records show that the defendant --former Brigadier General LOBO-- has admitted under oath that he left the US Warship Johnson negligently out of Martini olives under his command!"
"Order! Order!" demands the Judge, banging his gavel in a feeble effort to reclaim decorum under the booing and hissing. "Mr. Curr, how do you plead?"
"Guilty," he says. "I fucking hate olives almost as much as I hate those little supremacist Cheerios. Both of them exploited the Spaghettio, and made 'em run casinos." He paused dramatically. "Can't we all just be a grey quazi tomatoe-pasta pizza topping that stays crunchy in milk?"
And so General Hamms ceremoniously tore the bars, stripes and stars away from LOBO's notoriously-itchy uniform.
Monday
Parting Schatt
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
"Remember this?" I demanded, kicking the old man in the stomach. I stuffed the rumpled paper into the old business teacher's face.
"Yes," cried the muffled voice. "It's a ridiculous business model presented by an idiot former student of mine. LOBO, I think!"
"Yeah, well he's a bigshot war hero now. So we had this checked out by Steven Hawking. It turns out you gave him a 'C' because you forgot to carry the one when you checked his math!" I kicked him again.
"Steven Hawking is a hack--!" wailed the sobbing, frail instructor. "A reckless mathematical maverick!"
"Professor Schatt," I continued, "for failing to credit LOBO with the delivery of eighty thousand widgets per year since 1997, the compiled interest, and the pain and suffering inflicted upon my client --your former student-- we hereby hold you liable for 352 trillion--"
"353 trillion," says Legless Jim, winking.
"--353 trillion dollars," I says, stompin on his lymph nodes.
"Let's go to the ATM," the broken professor whimpered.
[Mr. Insanity]
"Remember this?" I demanded, kicking the old man in the stomach. I stuffed the rumpled paper into the old business teacher's face.
"Yes," cried the muffled voice. "It's a ridiculous business model presented by an idiot former student of mine. LOBO, I think!"
"Yeah, well he's a bigshot war hero now. So we had this checked out by Steven Hawking. It turns out you gave him a 'C' because you forgot to carry the one when you checked his math!" I kicked him again.
"Steven Hawking is a hack--!" wailed the sobbing, frail instructor. "A reckless mathematical maverick!"
"Professor Schatt," I continued, "for failing to credit LOBO with the delivery of eighty thousand widgets per year since 1997, the compiled interest, and the pain and suffering inflicted upon my client --your former student-- we hereby hold you liable for 352 trillion--"
"353 trillion," says Legless Jim, winking.
"--353 trillion dollars," I says, stompin on his lymph nodes.
"Let's go to the ATM," the broken professor whimpered.
Helter Skelter
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Look," I says, scratching 'cuz of this itchy fucking uniform. "We have a lot in common. You're a cold-blooded superintelligent, giant, evil squid and I'm a ..."
Uh-oh.
"... really ... "
Think fast.
" ... notorious ..."
C'mon douchebag.
"Douchebag!" I says, relieved.
The superintelligent giant squid eyed me warily.
"I'm serious!" I says. "When's the last time that Santa asshole showed up for you, hm?"
The squid's giant eye, hanging on an articulated eyestalk, was tearing up. (And for all you people that read books and crap, yes I know squids don't have articulated eyestalks. This is my story. So go read Quincy or something, smartass!)
"Well, this year would be the 25th Anniversary of 'Silent Night, Holy Crap'," I says in yet another desperate effort to get you confused new readers to go back to the March 2006 Archives link --almost directly to the right of this post-- when these fuctup plotlines got started. "And I've got a little payback planned out for The Fat Man."
The superintelligent giant squid squealed with glee.
"You want in?" I asked.
[LOBO]
"Look," I says, scratching 'cuz of this itchy fucking uniform. "We have a lot in common. You're a cold-blooded superintelligent, giant, evil squid and I'm a ..."
Uh-oh.
"... really ... "
Think fast.
" ... notorious ..."
C'mon douchebag.
"Douchebag!" I says, relieved.
The superintelligent giant squid eyed me warily.
"I'm serious!" I says. "When's the last time that Santa asshole showed up for you, hm?"
The squid's giant eye, hanging on an articulated eyestalk, was tearing up. (And for all you people that read books and crap, yes I know squids don't have articulated eyestalks. This is my story. So go read Quincy or something, smartass!)
"Well, this year would be the 25th Anniversary of 'Silent Night, Holy Crap'," I says in yet another desperate effort to get you confused new readers to go back to the March 2006 Archives link --almost directly to the right of this post-- when these fuctup plotlines got started. "And I've got a little payback planned out for The Fat Man."
The superintelligent giant squid squealed with glee.
"You want in?" I asked.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
MY mom taught me two things in life: never trust whitey, and how to use Morse code.
Unfortunately, the brain cells that contained that information were rapidly promoted to Respiration and Pulmonary Activity after that Def Leopard concert in 1984.
So I'm hoping I'm tapping out:
"Victory Is Declared! 2,000 soldiers deployed successfully. Without a single shot fired, they have melted into the Russian community. Assimilation is so complete, the Russians are already dressing and acting like our soldiers. Will drive the ship back to US when tide comes in. Also will want to talk about this Brigadier General uniform ... it's itchy. Plus I look better in softer tones apparently. Can I just wear a pirate hat? Anyways, helpless at sea with 35 trillion dollars worth of US war machine and military secrets, so hope to 'see' (haha) you soon. Yours Truly, Brigadier General LOBO."
When the Russian subs surfaced on the port side, I started getting nervous.
But when the Superintelligent Giant Squid snatched them up and gobbled them whole --laughing his mirthless laugh as the mighty hulls burst in his powerful grasp-- I had to change my shorts.
[LOBO]
MY mom taught me two things in life: never trust whitey, and how to use Morse code.
Unfortunately, the brain cells that contained that information were rapidly promoted to Respiration and Pulmonary Activity after that Def Leopard concert in 1984.
So I'm hoping I'm tapping out:
"Victory Is Declared! 2,000 soldiers deployed successfully. Without a single shot fired, they have melted into the Russian community. Assimilation is so complete, the Russians are already dressing and acting like our soldiers. Will drive the ship back to US when tide comes in. Also will want to talk about this Brigadier General uniform ... it's itchy. Plus I look better in softer tones apparently. Can I just wear a pirate hat? Anyways, helpless at sea with 35 trillion dollars worth of US war machine and military secrets, so hope to 'see' (haha) you soon. Yours Truly, Brigadier General LOBO."
When the Russian subs surfaced on the port side, I started getting nervous.
But when the Superintelligent Giant Squid snatched them up and gobbled them whole --laughing his mirthless laugh as the mighty hulls burst in his powerful grasp-- I had to change my shorts.
Saturday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
The War Room was a living, breathing entity during the crisis.
"Sir, the SS Johnson has gone down in the San Francisco Bay," said Corporal Huett.
General Hamms scratched his forehead. "The Johnson? Isn't that the one with all those damned 'Village People'?"
It was almost a rhetorical query: he knew the ship's name well. For weeks he had suffered the sleepless, quiet dread of this particular aircraft carrier appearing on the Iraqi horizon. "How did this happen?" asks the General.
"The last report we have was from Commander Fritz. It details some kind of problem with configuring the tanning beds to the nuclear reactor." He pauses. "2000 souls presumed lost"
"2000 gay souls, right?"
"Presumably."
An officer wearing a headset interrupted. "Sir! It's the President on line three."
General Hamms sighed deeply as he picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he answered rigidly. "Yes sir. Right in the Bay." A pause. "2000 sir." He nods. "Yessir. All fruitcakes. Mostly democrats, and maybe a few bonus Protestants too."
"Sir!" snapped the soldier. "We have the interior decorator responsible for sinking the vessel on line four."
"He survived?"
"Apparently."
"Well get that boy out here!" the General demands. "He's a goddamned national hero!"
***
It turned out that the SS Johnson had indeed sunk, but the water was only a few inches deep. So LOBO stood staring out over a throng of pastel-colored capri-cut camouflage khakis and silk Aloha shirts as he received his telephoned field promotion to Brigadier General.
And sadly in front of 2,000 soggy seamen, he was ironically unable to think of a single joke to tell.
He picked up his issue of Playboy --LOBO was rarely seen anymore without a copy of Playboy or Juggs ever since the induction ceremony-- and jammed it in a militant fashion under his arm as he looked out over the bridge.
The visible billboards were all in Spanish.
LOBO doesn't speak or read Spanish.
So this is Russia he thought. A mere fifteen minutes at sea, and we're here already.
He turned to the group. "Gentlemen, we have arrived. And as the current ranking officer, I see no reason not to continue the invasion as scheduled."
The jazzed crowd cheered.
He turned to the bay, determined, and slapped the Playboy loudly on the wet deck.
"Alright boys. Start the musical number!"
[Mr. Insanity]
The War Room was a living, breathing entity during the crisis.
"Sir, the SS Johnson has gone down in the San Francisco Bay," said Corporal Huett.
General Hamms scratched his forehead. "The Johnson? Isn't that the one with all those damned 'Village People'?"
It was almost a rhetorical query: he knew the ship's name well. For weeks he had suffered the sleepless, quiet dread of this particular aircraft carrier appearing on the Iraqi horizon. "How did this happen?" asks the General.
"The last report we have was from Commander Fritz. It details some kind of problem with configuring the tanning beds to the nuclear reactor." He pauses. "2000 souls presumed lost"
"2000 gay souls, right?"
"Presumably."
An officer wearing a headset interrupted. "Sir! It's the President on line three."
General Hamms sighed deeply as he picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he answered rigidly. "Yes sir. Right in the Bay." A pause. "2000 sir." He nods. "Yessir. All fruitcakes. Mostly democrats, and maybe a few bonus Protestants too."
"Sir!" snapped the soldier. "We have the interior decorator responsible for sinking the vessel on line four."
"He survived?"
"Apparently."
"Well get that boy out here!" the General demands. "He's a goddamned national hero!"
It turned out that the SS Johnson had indeed sunk, but the water was only a few inches deep. So LOBO stood staring out over a throng of pastel-colored capri-cut camouflage khakis and silk Aloha shirts as he received his telephoned field promotion to Brigadier General.
And sadly in front of 2,000 soggy seamen, he was ironically unable to think of a single joke to tell.
He picked up his issue of Playboy --LOBO was rarely seen anymore without a copy of Playboy or Juggs ever since the induction ceremony-- and jammed it in a militant fashion under his arm as he looked out over the bridge.
The visible billboards were all in Spanish.
LOBO doesn't speak or read Spanish.
So this is Russia he thought. A mere fifteen minutes at sea, and we're here already.
He turned to the group. "Gentlemen, we have arrived. And as the current ranking officer, I see no reason not to continue the invasion as scheduled."
The jazzed crowd cheered.
He turned to the bay, determined, and slapped the Playboy loudly on the wet deck.
"Alright boys. Start the musical number!"
Friday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
So we're on the maiden voyage of the SS Johnson, and Private First Class Curr has been assigned to redecorate the entire thing.
After having it painted pink, LOBO added eighteen bars, four saunas, six brothels, a casino, two crack houses, and a Banana Republic; all of which guaranteed Predator Press 5% of the net profit.
The thing sunk in the harbor.
[Mr. Insanity]
So we're on the maiden voyage of the SS Johnson, and Private First Class Curr has been assigned to redecorate the entire thing.
After having it painted pink, LOBO added eighteen bars, four saunas, six brothels, a casino, two crack houses, and a Banana Republic; all of which guaranteed Predator Press 5% of the net profit.
The thing sunk in the harbor.
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Sergeant Bellows looked over LOBO's application with a raised eyebrow. "In the box marked 'sex', you wrote 'often'."
LOBO and Legless Jim snickered.
"Oh wow that's funny," says the swiveling cigar. From somewhere in the smoke, he says "I've never seen that one before."
"Well, it's 'don't ask, don’t tell', right?" says Legless Jim.
"That's for sexuality."
We could see LOBO's dream of being deployed on an all-female aircraft carrier disintegrate in his glassy eyes.
"But 'please indicate your sexuality' is on the application!" he protested.
"Yeah, I see that. And you wrote 'flaming gay' ..."
"So I could be deployed with the hot chicks!"
"Whatever."
Well okay, now I'm curious. "But I thought your couldn't ask--"
Bellows swings the cigar into his waiting fingertips. "We didn't ask. We told him to fill out this application." Cigar in the ashtray, he leans back. "Look, how are we ever going to prosecute people for 'asking' if we don't know that the truth is? At least this way, if anybody calls Mr. Curr 'flaming gay', we can immediately shoot them because we know they asked."
"Hm," Says LOBO, now intrigued. "But what if someone calls me a 'raving heterosexual' or something?"
"Don't worry," I says. "There's no danger of that. In the entire span of this Blog, the only chick that even remotely wanted to pounce you got run over with a spaceship."
"But I'm not gay," says LOBO.
We all stare.
"I'm not!!!"
[Mr. Insanity]
Sergeant Bellows looked over LOBO's application with a raised eyebrow. "In the box marked 'sex', you wrote 'often'."
LOBO and Legless Jim snickered.
"Oh wow that's funny," says the swiveling cigar. From somewhere in the smoke, he says "I've never seen that one before."
"Well, it's 'don't ask, don’t tell', right?" says Legless Jim.
"That's for sexuality."
We could see LOBO's dream of being deployed on an all-female aircraft carrier disintegrate in his glassy eyes.
"But 'please indicate your sexuality' is on the application!" he protested.
"Yeah, I see that. And you wrote 'flaming gay' ..."
"So I could be deployed with the hot chicks!"
"Whatever."
Well okay, now I'm curious. "But I thought your couldn't ask--"
Bellows swings the cigar into his waiting fingertips. "We didn't ask. We told him to fill out this application." Cigar in the ashtray, he leans back. "Look, how are we ever going to prosecute people for 'asking' if we don't know that the truth is? At least this way, if anybody calls Mr. Curr 'flaming gay', we can immediately shoot them because we know they asked."
"Hm," Says LOBO, now intrigued. "But what if someone calls me a 'raving heterosexual' or something?"
"Don't worry," I says. "There's no danger of that. In the entire span of this Blog, the only chick that even remotely wanted to pounce you got run over with a spaceship."
"But I'm not gay," says LOBO.
We all stare.
"I'm not!!!"
Wednesday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Sergeant Bellows was a short, tough looking guy. Squarish. Looks like a bulldog twirling a cigar in his mouth.
So far, of all the potential recruits for today, he's only had to refuse one: some guy named Cunning tried to sneak in with a broken pelvis.
The quota for the day already met, he quietly listened to LOBO with some interest, leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head.
"So I got my cotton plants growing, and I'm trying to find polyester plants so I can just make the T-Shirts right from my house." LOBO strokes his chin in thoughtful distraction. "Now I'm worried about security issues: industrial and national espionage. With $200, I've got to find a way to get rid of those surveillance satellites." He pulls two tiles. "So I think What about the Venus Fly Trap?", he continues in animated triumph. "I mean plant a bunch of em around my place, and feed 'em live cattle and steroids."
LOBO places his tiles on the board. I-T.
Silently, Sergeant Bellows leans forward and places his own tiles --T-O-U-R-N-I-Q-U-E-T-- and after collecting fifteen more tiles, he resumes his contemplative listening.
Eyebrows furrowed, LOBO examines his tiles as he continues. "Yeah well, suddenly my commie-pinko neighbors are complaining," he scrunches his face in sardonic mockery. "All day and all night, I'm hearing 'they're too ugly', and 'the leaves are fallin in my yard', and 'has anyone seen my kids?'" He grabs his tile and spells O-N at the tail of 'bludgeon'. "And that's why I think we should go to war with Russia." He pauses. "You can authorize that, right?"
Sergeant Bellows builds on LOBO's "ON", making it PANTHEON. "Oh sure," says Bellows. The score is now two hundred six to eight in the stoic sergeant’s favor. "This is the Bush Administration. We'll just tell the President it was his idea in the morning."
The great cigar swivels to the other side of his mouth, "The president is always way gung-ho after his Pop Tarts."
[Mr. Insanity]
Sergeant Bellows was a short, tough looking guy. Squarish. Looks like a bulldog twirling a cigar in his mouth.
So far, of all the potential recruits for today, he's only had to refuse one: some guy named Cunning tried to sneak in with a broken pelvis.
The quota for the day already met, he quietly listened to LOBO with some interest, leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head.
"So I got my cotton plants growing, and I'm trying to find polyester plants so I can just make the T-Shirts right from my house." LOBO strokes his chin in thoughtful distraction. "Now I'm worried about security issues: industrial and national espionage. With $200, I've got to find a way to get rid of those surveillance satellites." He pulls two tiles. "So I think What about the Venus Fly Trap?", he continues in animated triumph. "I mean plant a bunch of em around my place, and feed 'em live cattle and steroids."
LOBO places his tiles on the board. I-T.
Silently, Sergeant Bellows leans forward and places his own tiles --T-O-U-R-N-I-Q-U-E-T-- and after collecting fifteen more tiles, he resumes his contemplative listening.
Eyebrows furrowed, LOBO examines his tiles as he continues. "Yeah well, suddenly my commie-pinko neighbors are complaining," he scrunches his face in sardonic mockery. "All day and all night, I'm hearing 'they're too ugly', and 'the leaves are fallin in my yard', and 'has anyone seen my kids?'" He grabs his tile and spells O-N at the tail of 'bludgeon'. "And that's why I think we should go to war with Russia." He pauses. "You can authorize that, right?"
Sergeant Bellows builds on LOBO's "ON", making it PANTHEON. "Oh sure," says Bellows. The score is now two hundred six to eight in the stoic sergeant’s favor. "This is the Bush Administration. We'll just tell the President it was his idea in the morning."
The great cigar swivels to the other side of his mouth, "The president is always way gung-ho after his Pop Tarts."
Sunday
Semper Fi
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Yeah, well how are ya buddy?" I asks.
"Well, okay I guess," says Ethan over the phone. "How's Vegas?"
"Really fun, I suppose," says me, twirling the curly hotel phone cord in my fingers. "But we've hit a few little snags."
"You're going to make me late for work," says Ethan. "Gimmee the short version."
"Well," I says. "We crashed the airplane, Dash and Sapphire got married, Predator Press is 352 trillion dollars in the hole, and Russia has declared war on us."
"Dash and Sapphire?"
"Yeah. Weird, eh?"
"Well, try and have a good time. And stay out of trouble."
LOBO winced. "Would enlisting in the United States Marines constitute trouble? We're hammering out an alliance with a recruiter right now." LOBO turns the mouthpiece away and winks at the recruiter. "This'll only take a sec."
"You're enlisting?" says Ethan.
"Well, I'm at war with Russia, and it turns out these 'Marine' guys have a lot of stuff to have wars with. I mean these guys are way beyond us when it comes to planet-busting. Seems like a no-brainer."
"Well," says Ethan. "Go ahead. But if you do go full-on Global Thermonuclear don't touch anything until I get there."
"Deal!" I says excitedly.
***
Ethan was now very late. He poured his coffee into a plastic 'commuter' cup, and --short of time-- he skipped his breakfast cereal in favor of some granola bars in a box on the kitchen counter.
And for a strange moment, he would have sworn he heard the word "Wuss!", taunting him from the cereal cabinet ...
[LOBO]
"Yeah, well how are ya buddy?" I asks.
"Well, okay I guess," says Ethan over the phone. "How's Vegas?"
"Really fun, I suppose," says me, twirling the curly hotel phone cord in my fingers. "But we've hit a few little snags."
"You're going to make me late for work," says Ethan. "Gimmee the short version."
"Well," I says. "We crashed the airplane, Dash and Sapphire got married, Predator Press is 352 trillion dollars in the hole, and Russia has declared war on us."
"Dash and Sapphire?"
"Yeah. Weird, eh?"
"Well, try and have a good time. And stay out of trouble."
LOBO winced. "Would enlisting in the United States Marines constitute trouble? We're hammering out an alliance with a recruiter right now." LOBO turns the mouthpiece away and winks at the recruiter. "This'll only take a sec."
"You're enlisting?" says Ethan.
"Well, I'm at war with Russia, and it turns out these 'Marine' guys have a lot of stuff to have wars with. I mean these guys are way beyond us when it comes to planet-busting. Seems like a no-brainer."
"Well," says Ethan. "Go ahead. But if you do go full-on Global Thermonuclear don't touch anything until I get there."
"Deal!" I says excitedly.
Ethan was now very late. He poured his coffee into a plastic 'commuter' cup, and --short of time-- he skipped his breakfast cereal in favor of some granola bars in a box on the kitchen counter.
And for a strange moment, he would have sworn he heard the word "Wuss!", taunting him from the cereal cabinet ...
Saturday
We Will Fight in the Shade
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Legless Jim read the headline from May 13:
"Putin Calls USA 'Hungry Wolf
that Eats and Listens to no One'"
LOBO freaked.
"Look!" he insists. "We were all hammered at Froggo's pad, and after three in the morning I can't remember a damn thing. I woke up on the tennis court, half-naked and covered in lipstick and whipped cream."
"Uh huh," says Legless Jim.
LOBO looks at his boots in shame. "Suddenly, Argentina was legislating UN sanctions against me." He sobs into his hands. "I swear to God I didn't know that was Putin's whipped cream!"
"Take it easy man," says Legless Jim. "I mean it's the UN for Chrissake. It's not like it's Rent a Center ..."
"Take it easy?" says LOBO, wiping tears. "Russia just declared war on me! I love Russia! Russia is second-to-none when it comes to--" He pauses, thinking.
He looks to me, but I got nothing.
"Alright," he says finally, tears drying. "Screw those bastards."
"So you're going to war with Russia now?" I says.
"Don't be silly," he replies. "I can't whip Russia by myself." He throws his arm over our shoulders.
"We're going to war with Russia."
[Mr. Insanity]
Legless Jim read the headline from May 13:
that Eats and Listens to no One'"
LOBO freaked.
"Look!" he insists. "We were all hammered at Froggo's pad, and after three in the morning I can't remember a damn thing. I woke up on the tennis court, half-naked and covered in lipstick and whipped cream."
"Uh huh," says Legless Jim.
LOBO looks at his boots in shame. "Suddenly, Argentina was legislating UN sanctions against me." He sobs into his hands. "I swear to God I didn't know that was Putin's whipped cream!"
"Take it easy man," says Legless Jim. "I mean it's the UN for Chrissake. It's not like it's Rent a Center ..."
"Take it easy?" says LOBO, wiping tears. "Russia just declared war on me! I love Russia! Russia is second-to-none when it comes to--" He pauses, thinking.
He looks to me, but I got nothing.
"Alright," he says finally, tears drying. "Screw those bastards."
"So you're going to war with Russia now?" I says.
"Don't be silly," he replies. "I can't whip Russia by myself." He throws his arm over our shoulders.
"We're going to war with Russia."
Monday
Something Else
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Admiral Crunch, surly, cracked the whip on Lucky the Leprechaun with an animal ferocity.
From Admiral Crunch's brig, deep in the belly of the ship, Lucky's cries could be heard for a half a mile.
In defeated agony, Lucky hung limply, wrists tied overhead. His back was exposed --green jacket stripped open in the back-- revealing bloody, inflamed crisscrossing tears zig-zag the pale flesh. Salty sweat poured into the deep wounds, and Lucky's legendary Irish pride and defiance completely collapsed as he sobbed openly, begging for mercy.
"Feelin 'lucky' now, bitch?" growled the newly-promoted Admiral.
"Sir," Mr. Armani interrupted timidly. "We have evidence that Predator Press is on the verge of bankruptcy."
Admiral Crunch's eyes narrowed as he paused. He rolled up the whip and put it on the table, calmly measured, thinking quietly. "You have proof of this?" he asked in a barely-controlled voice.
"Oh yes!" says Mr. Armani. "They just posted about it earlier today." He turns his monitor so the enraged Admiral could see it better. Then he double-clicks his Explorer icon, prompting an AOL logon screen. "This might take a bit."
"Bankruptcy, eh?" asked the Admiral, twirling his singed mustache.
"Yes," says Mr. Armani. "And LOBO is right here in Vegas, even as we speak!"
"LOBO's an idiot," said the Admiral coolly. "What we have to do is put a stop to this nonsense forever."
Mr. Armani smiled. "I agree."
"Find me Mister and Misses Dash Cunning," commands Crunch.
"And have them dispatch of LOBO sir?"
"No you fool. We have to kill this beast right at the head." He draws his cutlass and holds it to Mr. Armani's throat.
"We're going to have to kill Ethan."
[Mr. Insanity]
Admiral Crunch, surly, cracked the whip on Lucky the Leprechaun with an animal ferocity.
From Admiral Crunch's brig, deep in the belly of the ship, Lucky's cries could be heard for a half a mile.
In defeated agony, Lucky hung limply, wrists tied overhead. His back was exposed --green jacket stripped open in the back-- revealing bloody, inflamed crisscrossing tears zig-zag the pale flesh. Salty sweat poured into the deep wounds, and Lucky's legendary Irish pride and defiance completely collapsed as he sobbed openly, begging for mercy.
"Feelin 'lucky' now, bitch?" growled the newly-promoted Admiral.
"Sir," Mr. Armani interrupted timidly. "We have evidence that Predator Press is on the verge of bankruptcy."
Admiral Crunch's eyes narrowed as he paused. He rolled up the whip and put it on the table, calmly measured, thinking quietly. "You have proof of this?" he asked in a barely-controlled voice.
"Oh yes!" says Mr. Armani. "They just posted about it earlier today." He turns his monitor so the enraged Admiral could see it better. Then he double-clicks his Explorer icon, prompting an AOL logon screen. "This might take a bit."
"Bankruptcy, eh?" asked the Admiral, twirling his singed mustache.
"Yes," says Mr. Armani. "And LOBO is right here in Vegas, even as we speak!"
"LOBO's an idiot," said the Admiral coolly. "What we have to do is put a stop to this nonsense forever."
Mr. Armani smiled. "I agree."
"Find me Mister and Misses Dash Cunning," commands Crunch.
"And have them dispatch of LOBO sir?"
"No you fool. We have to kill this beast right at the head." He draws his cutlass and holds it to Mr. Armani's throat.
"We're going to have to kill Ethan."
Cheap Thrills
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
I'm forced to admit that without Dash haranguing us on expenses, we've been taking certain "liberties" with the Predator Press budget.
Legless Jim, a whiz with numbers, rapidly typed into the calculator. Finally, he rips off the tape and inspects the digits at the bottom.
He whistles.
"Says here Predator Press operates at a deficit of roughly three hundred and fifty-two trillion dollars annually."
"Wow," says LOBO, despondent. "A few more years of that and we'll really be screwed."
"We could have a bake sale," I says.
"Can any of us cook?"
The three of us looked at each other.
"Not me," says LOBO. "When I poured milk on my Cap'n Crunch this morning, it burst into flames." He started pacing the floor. "It worked out okay for the Captain, though. He got a Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service medal, and was ultimately promoted to Admiral."
He stops and whirls on us. "C'mon guys. This is serious. If Predator Press goes belly up, the entire internet will collapse under the vacuum in a fiery hellstorm of molten plastic, cheap Ebay crap and junk email ... Kids'll start going back to books an learnin stuff, reckessly doin shit-tons of homework instead of downloading illegal music and pornography from chatrooms loaded with creepy perverts. We need a good, solid plan. Humanity is depending on us!"
Legless Jim scratched his chin. "Why is it I have the feeling that we'll sit here brainstorming for hours, and this feeble plotline will never even come up again?"
"Oooooo look!," exclaims LOBO. "A shiny object!"
[Mr. Insanity]
I'm forced to admit that without Dash haranguing us on expenses, we've been taking certain "liberties" with the Predator Press budget.
Legless Jim, a whiz with numbers, rapidly typed into the calculator. Finally, he rips off the tape and inspects the digits at the bottom.
He whistles.
"Says here Predator Press operates at a deficit of roughly three hundred and fifty-two trillion dollars annually."
"Wow," says LOBO, despondent. "A few more years of that and we'll really be screwed."
"We could have a bake sale," I says.
"Can any of us cook?"
The three of us looked at each other.
"Not me," says LOBO. "When I poured milk on my Cap'n Crunch this morning, it burst into flames." He started pacing the floor. "It worked out okay for the Captain, though. He got a Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service medal, and was ultimately promoted to Admiral."
He stops and whirls on us. "C'mon guys. This is serious. If Predator Press goes belly up, the entire internet will collapse under the vacuum in a fiery hellstorm of molten plastic, cheap Ebay crap and junk email ... Kids'll start going back to books an learnin stuff, reckessly doin shit-tons of homework instead of downloading illegal music and pornography from chatrooms loaded with creepy perverts. We need a good, solid plan. Humanity is depending on us!"
Legless Jim scratched his chin. "Why is it I have the feeling that we'll sit here brainstorming for hours, and this feeble plotline will never even come up again?"
"Oooooo look!," exclaims LOBO. "A shiny object!"
Runnin With the Anvil
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
"Nope. Dead, dead, dead", said Legless Jim as he read through the newspaper. "Says here the guy whacked an exports magnate ‘an stole over two million bucks. And then the dumbass goes and overdoses in a motel room."
"Thank God," says LOBO reading over his shoulder. Ethan has given me strict orders not to let LOBO read the newspaper without supervision; last time he did, he got a paper cut on his thumb and had to wear a giant cone on his neck to stop him from chewing on it. "This guy was obviously a menace to society."
In the casino lobby, they were filming a new episode of The Shield, and we were invited to watch. In this episode, David Lee Roth was introduced as the newest member of the "Strike Team".
"Wow guys!" says DLR, reading the teleprompter. "Thanks to me, we're the biggest, sexiest, wealthiest, most effective law enforcement unit in the whole world. Nothing can stop us now!"
Then, from behind, Lemonhead puts a pillowcase over Diamond Dave's head, and Vic and Shane beat him to death with shovels.
***
Among Dave's entourage, a bevy of beautiful babes, one girl recognizes LOBO.
"Aren't you--?"
"Never seen you before," insists LOBO, nervous.
"No, you're that guy from--"
"No I'm not," he says emphatically. "You must be mistaken."
"No," she smiles. "You're 'Bolt Upright', the mailman in The Hills and Thighs!"
LOBO sighed. "Traci Lords promised me I would get an Emmy --or something that kinda rhymes with it-- if I just rang the doorbell with a certified letter. But then Jeanna Jameson and Catalina Cruz took off their clothes and started making out."
We were amazed. "Well, what happened then?" I asked.
"I reported them for postal fraud."
[Mr. Insanity]
"Nope. Dead, dead, dead", said Legless Jim as he read through the newspaper. "Says here the guy whacked an exports magnate ‘an stole over two million bucks. And then the dumbass goes and overdoses in a motel room."
"Thank God," says LOBO reading over his shoulder. Ethan has given me strict orders not to let LOBO read the newspaper without supervision; last time he did, he got a paper cut on his thumb and had to wear a giant cone on his neck to stop him from chewing on it. "This guy was obviously a menace to society."
In the casino lobby, they were filming a new episode of The Shield, and we were invited to watch. In this episode, David Lee Roth was introduced as the newest member of the "Strike Team".
"Wow guys!" says DLR, reading the teleprompter. "Thanks to me, we're the biggest, sexiest, wealthiest, most effective law enforcement unit in the whole world. Nothing can stop us now!"
Then, from behind, Lemonhead puts a pillowcase over Diamond Dave's head, and Vic and Shane beat him to death with shovels.
Among Dave's entourage, a bevy of beautiful babes, one girl recognizes LOBO.
"Aren't you--?"
"Never seen you before," insists LOBO, nervous.
"No, you're that guy from--"
"No I'm not," he says emphatically. "You must be mistaken."
"No," she smiles. "You're 'Bolt Upright', the mailman in The Hills and Thighs!"
LOBO sighed. "Traci Lords promised me I would get an Emmy --or something that kinda rhymes with it-- if I just rang the doorbell with a certified letter. But then Jeanna Jameson and Catalina Cruz took off their clothes and started making out."
We were amazed. "Well, what happened then?" I asked.
"I reported them for postal fraud."
Sunday
The Last Command
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glitz and glamour. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
***
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched --almost impossibly small-- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled the wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh --it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care-- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
***
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
Trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glitz and glamour. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched --almost impossibly small-- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled the wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh --it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care-- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
Trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
Saturday
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Oh holy crap is this armor itchy" said Jimmy Orlando, standing like a crucified Christ as aides removed his complex armor. "And who the hell was that slob playing The Black Knight this week?" he demands.
"Hayden Christiansen sir", says the guy removing his plastic carapace.
"Well someone tell that hack that it's 'spin, thrust, turn' not 'spin, thrust, compile grocery list'," says Jimmy Orlando. "Had he ever leaned to read, he could plainly see that in the script!"
Taking a glass from a flunky, he drank deeply. Scowling suddenly, spat it over it's deliverer. "What the hell is this?" he growled. "Desani?"
"No you bitch," says Chip, dripping. He smiles reassuringly, tilting his hips. "Would it cheer you up to know that Fritz sent you flowers this morning?"
"Oh that Fritz," said Jimmy, swooning slightly. "I'll bet it's an apology for all that 'sex-change' nonsense."
"Jimmeee," said the handler removing his codpiece, concerned. "You're bleeding".
Jimmy Orlando rolled his eyes. "Well I'm not surprised, being forced to work with no-name incompetent talentless 'acting' swill." He sees a single drop of blood roll down his thigh from a quarter-inch cut. "You can bet this Heyman Christmasman will ... never work ... in ... Vegas ... aga--"
Jimmy Orlando fainted.
[LOBO]
"Oh holy crap is this armor itchy" said Jimmy Orlando, standing like a crucified Christ as aides removed his complex armor. "And who the hell was that slob playing The Black Knight this week?" he demands.
"Hayden Christiansen sir", says the guy removing his plastic carapace.
"Well someone tell that hack that it's 'spin, thrust, turn' not 'spin, thrust, compile grocery list'," says Jimmy Orlando. "Had he ever leaned to read, he could plainly see that in the script!"
Taking a glass from a flunky, he drank deeply. Scowling suddenly, spat it over it's deliverer. "What the hell is this?" he growled. "Desani?"
"No you bitch," says Chip, dripping. He smiles reassuringly, tilting his hips. "Would it cheer you up to know that Fritz sent you flowers this morning?"
"Oh that Fritz," said Jimmy, swooning slightly. "I'll bet it's an apology for all that 'sex-change' nonsense."
"Jimmeee," said the handler removing his codpiece, concerned. "You're bleeding".
Jimmy Orlando rolled his eyes. "Well I'm not surprised, being forced to work with no-name incompetent talentless 'acting' swill." He sees a single drop of blood roll down his thigh from a quarter-inch cut. "You can bet this Heyman Christmasman will ... never work ... in ... Vegas ... aga--"
Jimmy Orlando fainted.
A Flimsy Pretext
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Watching a jousting exhibition at Excalibur, LOBO and Legless Jim were covered head to toe in tourist souvenirs.
Legless Jim was quiet and contemplative; having bought Brad Pitt's legs, he could no longer be called "Legless Jim" and needed to come up with a new nickname.
"How about 'Blind Jim'?", asks LOBO, offering his Excalibur sunglasses.
"Can you really forgive ten years of debt to Las Vegas?" I asked over the cheering crowd.
"Sure," says LOBO confidently, sipping noisily from the bottom of his Excalibur flagon of Diet Excalibur Pepsi through a green curly Excalibur straw, jammed tightly against the tiny Excalibur umbrella. "It's a well-known fact that these Las Vegas guys are really generous and forgiving at heart. Those mobsters and stuff are all made up Hollywood eye-candy to disguise the soft-hearted and selfless nature of your average casino owner."
The lead character was on the field. The tall, handsome young blonde guy in armor was dispatching six big thugs in a fantastic flurry of buzz-saw swordplay.
"See?" says LOBO, dropping his Excalibur fries in excitement. "That is how my stunts in LOBO: The Motion Picture should look." He sticks his tiny plastic Excalibur sword in my chest. "Remind me to give George Lucas a call."
With an invisible Excalibur pencil, I pretended to write that down on an invisible Excalibur pad.
Distracted, my Excalibur nachos had long since gone cold and soggy. I decide to breach the subject of my preoccupation. "Right before we crashed our plane into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers --causing Las Vegas to spontaneously and inexplicably forgive ten years of gambling debts-- you were saying something about our, uh, our matching birthmarks."
"What?" says LOBO. "Oh. This." He turns his forearm to bear the curious birthmark and flicked it off with his finger.
Stunned, I turn my arm to my own birthmark. Rubbing it with my fingers, it started to peel off.
"Ethan has a trademark on the kit." LOBO explained. "You never know when a bunch of adhesive birthmarks might come in handy."
The crowd cheered as Prince Valliant somersaulted into furious combat with The Black Knight.
"So you're not my father." I sigh in relief.
"I didn't say that." says LOBO.
But you've never even slept with Sapphire."
LOBO smiled wistfully. "Not yet."
My face soured. The repulsive thought of mom and dad having sex made my mind slam shut like a trap, punctuated by the sound of Prince Charming and the Black Knight clashing steel.
"Look." says LOBO. Sensing my apprehension, he patted my shoulder assumingly. "You have to lighten up. And stop asking so many questions." He sighed. "You'll go crazy!"
"I suppose you're right," I said.
"Cohesive themes and good, solid plotlines are such a hassle," he whispers. "They completely mitigate the possibility of anything weird ever happening."
[Mr. Insanity]
Watching a jousting exhibition at Excalibur, LOBO and Legless Jim were covered head to toe in tourist souvenirs.
Legless Jim was quiet and contemplative; having bought Brad Pitt's legs, he could no longer be called "Legless Jim" and needed to come up with a new nickname.
"How about 'Blind Jim'?", asks LOBO, offering his Excalibur sunglasses.
"Can you really forgive ten years of debt to Las Vegas?" I asked over the cheering crowd.
"Sure," says LOBO confidently, sipping noisily from the bottom of his Excalibur flagon of Diet Excalibur Pepsi through a green curly Excalibur straw, jammed tightly against the tiny Excalibur umbrella. "It's a well-known fact that these Las Vegas guys are really generous and forgiving at heart. Those mobsters and stuff are all made up Hollywood eye-candy to disguise the soft-hearted and selfless nature of your average casino owner."
The lead character was on the field. The tall, handsome young blonde guy in armor was dispatching six big thugs in a fantastic flurry of buzz-saw swordplay.
"See?" says LOBO, dropping his Excalibur fries in excitement. "That is how my stunts in LOBO: The Motion Picture should look." He sticks his tiny plastic Excalibur sword in my chest. "Remind me to give George Lucas a call."
With an invisible Excalibur pencil, I pretended to write that down on an invisible Excalibur pad.
Distracted, my Excalibur nachos had long since gone cold and soggy. I decide to breach the subject of my preoccupation. "Right before we crashed our plane into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers --causing Las Vegas to spontaneously and inexplicably forgive ten years of gambling debts-- you were saying something about our, uh, our matching birthmarks."
"What?" says LOBO. "Oh. This." He turns his forearm to bear the curious birthmark and flicked it off with his finger.
Stunned, I turn my arm to my own birthmark. Rubbing it with my fingers, it started to peel off.
"Ethan has a trademark on the kit." LOBO explained. "You never know when a bunch of adhesive birthmarks might come in handy."
The crowd cheered as Prince Valliant somersaulted into furious combat with The Black Knight.
"So you're not my father." I sigh in relief.
"I didn't say that." says LOBO.
But you've never even slept with Sapphire."
LOBO smiled wistfully. "Not yet."
My face soured. The repulsive thought of mom and dad having sex made my mind slam shut like a trap, punctuated by the sound of Prince Charming and the Black Knight clashing steel.
"Look." says LOBO. Sensing my apprehension, he patted my shoulder assumingly. "You have to lighten up. And stop asking so many questions." He sighed. "You'll go crazy!"
"I suppose you're right," I said.
"Cohesive themes and good, solid plotlines are such a hassle," he whispers. "They completely mitigate the possibility of anything weird ever happening."
Friday
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
When it came to the Press Conference, LOBO was magnificent. I was watching his reaction on the news from the furthest thing on the face of the Earth.
A nearby church.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, bowing, waving his hands to silence the flashing and scribbling throng. "Freedom-loving citizens of Las Vegas, I've never been on TV before, so please remember that if you break into a musical number, I will kill you all".
Suddenly spotting the hot blonde from CNN he adds, "Except you".
***
On television, he seems to be rather conspicuously flipping through some index cards as "Legless Jim" asks a guy in an Armani for a quarter.
Ignoring Jim, the Armani guy pauses to watch the broadcast, brashly blocking our view.
LOBO continued, as I heard on "Legless Jim's" transistor radio: "As the hundredth plane crash into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers, I would like to thank MGM for celebrating the occasion by forgiving ten years of Vegas-wide gambling debts."
It was then that "Legless Jim" --sobbing tears of joy-- punched "Mr. Armani" square in the nuts ...
[Mr. Insanity]
When it came to the Press Conference, LOBO was magnificent. I was watching his reaction on the news from the furthest thing on the face of the Earth.
A nearby church.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, bowing, waving his hands to silence the flashing and scribbling throng. "Freedom-loving citizens of Las Vegas, I've never been on TV before, so please remember that if you break into a musical number, I will kill you all".
Suddenly spotting the hot blonde from CNN he adds, "Except you".
On television, he seems to be rather conspicuously flipping through some index cards as "Legless Jim" asks a guy in an Armani for a quarter.
Ignoring Jim, the Armani guy pauses to watch the broadcast, brashly blocking our view.
LOBO continued, as I heard on "Legless Jim's" transistor radio: "As the hundredth plane crash into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers, I would like to thank MGM for celebrating the occasion by forgiving ten years of Vegas-wide gambling debts."
It was then that "Legless Jim" --sobbing tears of joy-- punched "Mr. Armani" square in the nuts ...
Thursday
Lovefool
Predator Press
[LOBO]
After centuries, mass transit was not yet perfected.
Particularly in the case when everyone that works on it is dead; Max, Brighta and Vetter were kicked off a full half of a mile before reaching the home of The Crone, and no transfers were issued.
In secrecy, they observed The Crone: a spitting, toothless, bitter old woman, quietly puttering around her yard. "Where the Hell are those jerks?" she would complain, picking weeds from her vegetable garden.
Impatient, Brighta burst forward. "Madam, we are those jerks. In the name of King Casio, you and all--"
"Yes, yes," cackled The Crone. "Here to rape and plunder, eh?"
"Uh, no. Actually--"
"Says right here," Max interupted, unrolling an official-looking scroll from his breast pocket. "Find and conquer Towndaleburgville. Rape, pillage and plunder. Signed King Casio." he re-rolled the document and returned it to his coat. "Now, Vetter always takes 'plunder'. And I've got dibs on 'pillage' ..."
The Crone smiled, flirting toothlessly, flashing her dagger-like eyelash.
"But I don't want rape this time!" cried Brighta. "You always take rape!"
"Not this time."
"Can I just do the horse?"
The Crone started buttoning her blouse. "Listen you jerks. You need a country to invade, and I need an invaded country to live in." She spat. "What we have to do is find a way to defeat the dragon."
Brighta whined "I don't know how you expect to get laid if you call your genitalia 'The Dragon' ... "
"No, dumbass. We need to fight evil. Therefore, we need to locate an ultimate wanton cesspool of debauched and sinful desire, and find someone that is excelling in such a dangerously evil place."
"You hoo!" a familiar female voice called from the back. "Old lady, I can't find my bikini top!"
Max drew his sword. "What's that vile woman?" he threatened. "A trap? A vile ogre, bent on pounding our bones into a fine, pasty pulp to be squeezed though a cheap screen door--?"
"That's Princess Phoebe. She's sunning by the pool."
Somewhere, barely out of sight, Beautiful White Stallion fainted dead away with a huge crash.
"Alright I call bullshit!" exclaimed Brighta as they walked around the dilapidated shack. He pointed at his counting fingers, "Princess Phoebe was most plainly killed in 'A Fairy Tale' released by LOBO in 1999 ..."
All became quiet as Princess Phoebe climbed out of the heated indoor pool. Shaking her waist-length dark hair, droplets of water ran down her well-oiled curvy features.
And for a heated indoor pool, wow was it cold in there.
"My God!" said Brighta. "She looks delicious. And let me tell you, I've eaten my share of people--"
***
"There!" The Crone pointed at the Crystal Ball. "That's a goddamned hero."
As they all watched in the glass, a single man leapt and bounded from horse to horse, slaying inept attackers left and right.
Brighta whistled. "Did you see that? That was goddamn amazing!"
"Why are you showing us this, woman?" asked Max. He wasn't paying attention. He was watching Pheobe.
"Because that's our dragon-slaying hero dumbass."
"Why are you calling me a dumbass?" asked Pheobe. She wasn't paying attention. She was watching the valiant knight in the crystal ball.
The Crone sighed. "Because he's the only hope for the future of Towndaleburgville!"
"So where do we find him?"
The Crone turned the ball over and shook it. When the snow settled, she pointed.
"Says here, 'Las Vegas' ..."
[LOBO]
After centuries, mass transit was not yet perfected.
Particularly in the case when everyone that works on it is dead; Max, Brighta and Vetter were kicked off a full half of a mile before reaching the home of The Crone, and no transfers were issued.
In secrecy, they observed The Crone: a spitting, toothless, bitter old woman, quietly puttering around her yard. "Where the Hell are those jerks?" she would complain, picking weeds from her vegetable garden.
Impatient, Brighta burst forward. "Madam, we are those jerks. In the name of King Casio, you and all--"
"Yes, yes," cackled The Crone. "Here to rape and plunder, eh?"
"Uh, no. Actually--"
"Says right here," Max interupted, unrolling an official-looking scroll from his breast pocket. "Find and conquer Towndaleburgville. Rape, pillage and plunder. Signed King Casio." he re-rolled the document and returned it to his coat. "Now, Vetter always takes 'plunder'. And I've got dibs on 'pillage' ..."
The Crone smiled, flirting toothlessly, flashing her dagger-like eyelash.
"But I don't want rape this time!" cried Brighta. "You always take rape!"
"Not this time."
"Can I just do the horse?"
The Crone started buttoning her blouse. "Listen you jerks. You need a country to invade, and I need an invaded country to live in." She spat. "What we have to do is find a way to defeat the dragon."
Brighta whined "I don't know how you expect to get laid if you call your genitalia 'The Dragon' ... "
"No, dumbass. We need to fight evil. Therefore, we need to locate an ultimate wanton cesspool of debauched and sinful desire, and find someone that is excelling in such a dangerously evil place."
"You hoo!" a familiar female voice called from the back. "Old lady, I can't find my bikini top!"
Max drew his sword. "What's that vile woman?" he threatened. "A trap? A vile ogre, bent on pounding our bones into a fine, pasty pulp to be squeezed though a cheap screen door--?"
"That's Princess Phoebe. She's sunning by the pool."
Somewhere, barely out of sight, Beautiful White Stallion fainted dead away with a huge crash.
"Alright I call bullshit!" exclaimed Brighta as they walked around the dilapidated shack. He pointed at his counting fingers, "Princess Phoebe was most plainly killed in 'A Fairy Tale' released by LOBO in 1999 ..."
All became quiet as Princess Phoebe climbed out of the heated indoor pool. Shaking her waist-length dark hair, droplets of water ran down her well-oiled curvy features.
And for a heated indoor pool, wow was it cold in there.
"My God!" said Brighta. "She looks delicious. And let me tell you, I've eaten my share of people--"
"There!" The Crone pointed at the Crystal Ball. "That's a goddamned hero."
As they all watched in the glass, a single man leapt and bounded from horse to horse, slaying inept attackers left and right.
Brighta whistled. "Did you see that? That was goddamn amazing!"
"Why are you showing us this, woman?" asked Max. He wasn't paying attention. He was watching Pheobe.
"Because that's our dragon-slaying hero dumbass."
"Why are you calling me a dumbass?" asked Pheobe. She wasn't paying attention. She was watching the valiant knight in the crystal ball.
The Crone sighed. "Because he's the only hope for the future of Towndaleburgville!"
"So where do we find him?"
The Crone turned the ball over and shook it. When the snow settled, she pointed.
"Says here, 'Las Vegas' ..."
White Lies
Predator Press
[LOBO]
MAXIMILLIAN was scrunched tightly in the bottom of the crow’s nest, roasting slowly under the blistering noonday sun. The confined area made him suddenly aware of how badly he smelled. He pulled his sweat-matted hair from his piqued ear and listened carefully.
“Land!” Brighta repeated tearfully in the distance, laughing. “Goddamn it, land!”
Yeah fuck you, Max thought. The last time he fell for this, Brighta was waiting for him with a lead pipe and a boiling cauldron. He gripped the hilt of his sword in silence.
But soon he heard Vetter and Brighta, animated in the distance. Vetter began to join the celebration.
Skeptical, Max carefully peeked over the edge.
And there it was.
***
Max was the navigator and current ranking officer on the battleship-class Bloodlust: the last surviving vessel of the great armada sent by King Casio the Second to invade The Exotic Western Shores -- King Casio abbreviates it "Exotic Whores" in an apparent drunken spat of bad penmanship-- so illegal copies of them could be "attained" and distributed over the internet so Metallica would get really pissed off.
With puzzling orders, Max, Brighta and Vetter were the sole survivors of the legendary and mighty Bloodlust crew.
They had been lost at sea for two years.
Transgressions momentarily forgotten, all hands joined on the deck to rejoice the sudden good fortune.
***
As the Bloodlust could not be piloted to shore by the three surviving crewmembers, they dropped anchor and boarded a dingy to row to the beach. Vetter could not contain himself: his big sloppy grin beamed as he rowed, his huge arms bulging under the welcome labor.
“A saucy wench, a pint of ale, and a leg of lamb,” Brighta laughed merrily. “What about you, Vetter?”
Vetter just smiled broadly, pulling the oars with his mighty arms.
Max studied his maps. “We still have our mission.”
"Perform a full-scale invasion of the country. Right." Brighta seized the maps and cast them into the sea. “There's three of us left! That’s what I think of the damned mission!”
Max thought better of diving in after the useless maps. When they left, those same maps seemed infallible: find the North Star and sail due west. But one night the North Star was simply gone, replaced by stars with strange names like "Steve Loves Amanda" and "The Great Ogre Vortex". Still, he glared furiously at Brighta.
Brighta spat into the sea, too hungry to squabble over details. “Look at that pillar of smoke!” he grinned. “I’ll bet there’s a feast being prepared even as we speak!”
Vetter frowned.
As they grew closer, they could see that it was indeed no cooking fire. An entire village was ablaze.
Brighta’s mood began to slide into the serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he finally declared. Sniffing the air, he paused. "Does anybody else smell quiche?"
***
By the time they pulled the small boat ashore on the beautiful empty beach, the sun was setting. Max studied the barren landscape with some concern. It was too quiet. “Brighta, we need fresh water and food. Vetter, you gather some firewood.”
“And be careful,” Max continued. “Something is wrong here.”
“Shhh!” Brighta interrupted. “Listen!”
Hoofbeats.
Max and Brighta drew their swords as a lean and magnificent riderless beautiful white stallion galloped into the clearing.
"Ah Christ" Beautiful White Stallion muttered to himself. "Now what?"
"You there!" demanded Max. "In the name of King Casio, you and all of the realm of the depraved cretin King King are hereby commanded to lay down your arms and --"
"Look buddy," said the stallion, still in full gallop. "First of all, I don't surrender to people without the mental voltage to jumpstart a mouse trap." And as the steed faded in the foliage, he added. "... And by the way, everybody is dead. Have fun with your new kingdom!"
"Nice going, dumbass!" said Brighta, smacking Max behind his head. "The first food we're seen in months--" Brighta rolled his eyes as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, swishing his hips "--and you do the whole 'I command you to lay down your arms' bit--."
***
Tracking Beautiful White Stallion took several hours, as Beautiful White Stallion had enormous disdain for rugged forest. A metropolitan and educated creature, Beautiful White Stallion stuck traditionally with main thoroughfares, highways, and public transportation.
But Max had made a crude sketch, and asking around, they traced him to am exotic French Boutique named "Le Towndaleburgville Chic". After a day at the spa the hunt resumed in the form of questioning the locals.
"Oh yes," Pierre replied. "I'll bet Beautiful White Stallion went to see the Crone. The Crone is the sole survivor of the dragon attack."
"But if there were no survivors, who are you people?" asked Max.
Pierre leaned forward, whispering. "A great evil has come over this place." He nervously looked over his shoulder. "The author of this story is ... well ..." With his index finger, he drew a repeating circle around his right temple.
"Oh my God," gasped Brighta. "I knew it. I fucking knew it--"
"Eh," Pierre shrugged. "At least it's not Wes Craven."
"Or Dean Koontz," Max agreed.
[LOBO]
MAXIMILLIAN was scrunched tightly in the bottom of the crow’s nest, roasting slowly under the blistering noonday sun. The confined area made him suddenly aware of how badly he smelled. He pulled his sweat-matted hair from his piqued ear and listened carefully.
“Land!” Brighta repeated tearfully in the distance, laughing. “Goddamn it, land!”
Yeah fuck you, Max thought. The last time he fell for this, Brighta was waiting for him with a lead pipe and a boiling cauldron. He gripped the hilt of his sword in silence.
But soon he heard Vetter and Brighta, animated in the distance. Vetter began to join the celebration.
Skeptical, Max carefully peeked over the edge.
And there it was.
Max was the navigator and current ranking officer on the battleship-class Bloodlust: the last surviving vessel of the great armada sent by King Casio the Second to invade The Exotic Western Shores -- King Casio abbreviates it "Exotic Whores" in an apparent drunken spat of bad penmanship-- so illegal copies of them could be "attained" and distributed over the internet so Metallica would get really pissed off.
With puzzling orders, Max, Brighta and Vetter were the sole survivors of the legendary and mighty Bloodlust crew.
They had been lost at sea for two years.
Transgressions momentarily forgotten, all hands joined on the deck to rejoice the sudden good fortune.
As the Bloodlust could not be piloted to shore by the three surviving crewmembers, they dropped anchor and boarded a dingy to row to the beach. Vetter could not contain himself: his big sloppy grin beamed as he rowed, his huge arms bulging under the welcome labor.
“A saucy wench, a pint of ale, and a leg of lamb,” Brighta laughed merrily. “What about you, Vetter?”
Vetter just smiled broadly, pulling the oars with his mighty arms.
Max studied his maps. “We still have our mission.”
"Perform a full-scale invasion of the country. Right." Brighta seized the maps and cast them into the sea. “There's three of us left! That’s what I think of the damned mission!”
Max thought better of diving in after the useless maps. When they left, those same maps seemed infallible: find the North Star and sail due west. But one night the North Star was simply gone, replaced by stars with strange names like "Steve Loves Amanda" and "The Great Ogre Vortex". Still, he glared furiously at Brighta.
Brighta spat into the sea, too hungry to squabble over details. “Look at that pillar of smoke!” he grinned. “I’ll bet there’s a feast being prepared even as we speak!”
Vetter frowned.
As they grew closer, they could see that it was indeed no cooking fire. An entire village was ablaze.
Brighta’s mood began to slide into the serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he finally declared. Sniffing the air, he paused. "Does anybody else smell quiche?"
By the time they pulled the small boat ashore on the beautiful empty beach, the sun was setting. Max studied the barren landscape with some concern. It was too quiet. “Brighta, we need fresh water and food. Vetter, you gather some firewood.”
“And be careful,” Max continued. “Something is wrong here.”
“Shhh!” Brighta interrupted. “Listen!”
Hoofbeats.
Max and Brighta drew their swords as a lean and magnificent riderless beautiful white stallion galloped into the clearing.
"Ah Christ" Beautiful White Stallion muttered to himself. "Now what?"
"You there!" demanded Max. "In the name of King Casio, you and all of the realm of the depraved cretin King King are hereby commanded to lay down your arms and --"
"Look buddy," said the stallion, still in full gallop. "First of all, I don't surrender to people without the mental voltage to jumpstart a mouse trap." And as the steed faded in the foliage, he added. "... And by the way, everybody is dead. Have fun with your new kingdom!"
"Nice going, dumbass!" said Brighta, smacking Max behind his head. "The first food we're seen in months--" Brighta rolled his eyes as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, swishing his hips "--and you do the whole 'I command you to lay down your arms' bit--."
Tracking Beautiful White Stallion took several hours, as Beautiful White Stallion had enormous disdain for rugged forest. A metropolitan and educated creature, Beautiful White Stallion stuck traditionally with main thoroughfares, highways, and public transportation.
But Max had made a crude sketch, and asking around, they traced him to am exotic French Boutique named "Le Towndaleburgville Chic". After a day at the spa the hunt resumed in the form of questioning the locals.
"Oh yes," Pierre replied. "I'll bet Beautiful White Stallion went to see the Crone. The Crone is the sole survivor of the dragon attack."
"But if there were no survivors, who are you people?" asked Max.
Pierre leaned forward, whispering. "A great evil has come over this place." He nervously looked over his shoulder. "The author of this story is ... well ..." With his index finger, he drew a repeating circle around his right temple.
"Oh my God," gasped Brighta. "I knew it. I fucking knew it--"
"Eh," Pierre shrugged. "At least it's not Wes Craven."
"Or Dean Koontz," Max agreed.
Monday
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Mr. Insanity was getting rattled.
"What are we gonna do?"
"Look," I says, grabbing his lapels. "We don't have time for this. I need you to get a grip on yourself. Now help me find my --I mean our-- parachutes."
"Get a grip?" Mr. Insanity demanded, pointing out the window. "Were on a plane that's being ripped apart --in flight-- by an indestructible psychopathic newlywed robot! How bad does it gotta be before I'm allowed to lose my fucking mind?"
Out the window, we saw Captain Smith jump out of the cargo bay on a motorcycle.
With my parachute.
"That's no way to talk about your mother," I scolded.
"My mother!?" Mr. Insanity laughed hysterically. "Six months ago, she was rolling off of an assembly line. I'm forty-four you goddamn nut case!"
"You know that heart-shaped birthmark on your forearm?" I turned his arm to show it to him. Then I pulled up my sleeve and showed him mine.
Identical.
"That's no way to talk to your father, you little bastard."
[LOBO]
Mr. Insanity was getting rattled.
"What are we gonna do?"
"Look," I says, grabbing his lapels. "We don't have time for this. I need you to get a grip on yourself. Now help me find my --I mean our-- parachutes."
"Get a grip?" Mr. Insanity demanded, pointing out the window. "Were on a plane that's being ripped apart --in flight-- by an indestructible psychopathic newlywed robot! How bad does it gotta be before I'm allowed to lose my fucking mind?"
Out the window, we saw Captain Smith jump out of the cargo bay on a motorcycle.
With my parachute.
"That's no way to talk about your mother," I scolded.
"My mother!?" Mr. Insanity laughed hysterically. "Six months ago, she was rolling off of an assembly line. I'm forty-four you goddamn nut case!"
"You know that heart-shaped birthmark on your forearm?" I turned his arm to show it to him. Then I pulled up my sleeve and showed him mine.
Identical.
"That's no way to talk to your father, you little bastard."
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Glenda couldn't go ... she wanted to stay home and wax her mustache.
So that left Mr. Insanity, me and a lifeless Dash Cunning. And when Dash "came to" he kept insisting that there was someone on the wing, tearing up the airplane engine. So I suspect Sapphire was tagging along to some capacity as well.
We absently wolfed down plastic wrapped boxes of chicken cordon bleu and lobster tails, admiring her destructive prowess through the oval window as the passengers screamed.
"Why didn't she just come onboard with the rest of us?" asked Mr. Insanity. "We bought her a ticket."
"One day son," says me "when you're old enough, I'll explain to you the differences between men and women."
"But I'm forty four. I'm almost ten years older than you are. Hell, I bought the beer at our Superbowl party!"
Stupid kids. Always so anxious to grow up. "Has Dash stopped screaming yet?"
Mr. Insanity lifted his heavy boot from the pillow over Dash's face. "Sleeping, I guess."
"Poor guy. Must be exhausted to sleep through all this."
***
Eventually, we were summoned to the cockpit.
Captain Smith was furious. "Who the hell is that chick ripping apart my airplane and endangering all of our lives?" he demanded.
"That's Sapphire," I replied. "She's a little moody from time to time. Estrogen imbalances combined with a hydraulic pressure surge would be my guess."
"Isn't she the--?" Mr. Insanity began.
"She," I interrupted, "has just had her heart broken by that guy with the pillow on his head." I pointed at Dash. "Mr. Cunning has stolen her heart, her virtue, and all her albums --including the boxed set of William Shatner, Live at Budokan-- and now refuses to marry her."
Mr. Insanity looked at me, bewildered.
"The cad!" growled Captain Smith. "The boxed set? The one that has Shatner doing Darling Nikki with Patrick Stuart and Lemmie from Motorhead?"
"The very same," I says.
"I'll fix this right now. I'm a Captain, dammit. I can marry people." The Captain wandered back into the passenger section. "Anybody have any objections to these two getting hitched?"
The panicking passengers stopped lighting fires and stabbing each other. After a moment of quiet reflection, they all replied in unison "No. Not really."
"Then I now present you with Mister and Misses Dash Cunning. You may all sit down and finally shut the Hell up." Captain Smith turned on his heel and returned to the cockpit, slamming the door.
"Are you sure this was a good idea?" asked Mr. Insanity.
"It was mine wasn't it?" I says distractedly. But after five minutes, I still can't find the parachute I had stowed in my briefcase under the laptop.
Houston, we may have a problem.
[LOBO]
Glenda couldn't go ... she wanted to stay home and wax her mustache.
So that left Mr. Insanity, me and a lifeless Dash Cunning. And when Dash "came to" he kept insisting that there was someone on the wing, tearing up the airplane engine. So I suspect Sapphire was tagging along to some capacity as well.
We absently wolfed down plastic wrapped boxes of chicken cordon bleu and lobster tails, admiring her destructive prowess through the oval window as the passengers screamed.
"Why didn't she just come onboard with the rest of us?" asked Mr. Insanity. "We bought her a ticket."
"One day son," says me "when you're old enough, I'll explain to you the differences between men and women."
"But I'm forty four. I'm almost ten years older than you are. Hell, I bought the beer at our Superbowl party!"
Stupid kids. Always so anxious to grow up. "Has Dash stopped screaming yet?"
Mr. Insanity lifted his heavy boot from the pillow over Dash's face. "Sleeping, I guess."
"Poor guy. Must be exhausted to sleep through all this."
Eventually, we were summoned to the cockpit.
Captain Smith was furious. "Who the hell is that chick ripping apart my airplane and endangering all of our lives?" he demanded.
"That's Sapphire," I replied. "She's a little moody from time to time. Estrogen imbalances combined with a hydraulic pressure surge would be my guess."
"Isn't she the--?" Mr. Insanity began.
"She," I interrupted, "has just had her heart broken by that guy with the pillow on his head." I pointed at Dash. "Mr. Cunning has stolen her heart, her virtue, and all her albums --including the boxed set of William Shatner, Live at Budokan-- and now refuses to marry her."
Mr. Insanity looked at me, bewildered.
"The cad!" growled Captain Smith. "The boxed set? The one that has Shatner doing Darling Nikki with Patrick Stuart and Lemmie from Motorhead?"
"The very same," I says.
"I'll fix this right now. I'm a Captain, dammit. I can marry people." The Captain wandered back into the passenger section. "Anybody have any objections to these two getting hitched?"
The panicking passengers stopped lighting fires and stabbing each other. After a moment of quiet reflection, they all replied in unison "No. Not really."
"Then I now present you with Mister and Misses Dash Cunning. You may all sit down and finally shut the Hell up." Captain Smith turned on his heel and returned to the cockpit, slamming the door.
"Are you sure this was a good idea?" asked Mr. Insanity.
"It was mine wasn't it?" I says distractedly. But after five minutes, I still can't find the parachute I had stowed in my briefcase under the laptop.
Houston, we may have a problem.
Las Vegas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The flight to Vegas wasn't pleasant.
My full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded "90 Day Free" AOL discs was wiped out by a full-scale replica of an F-4 Tornado, which continued on to destroy the rest of our hometown Pianosa as we knew an loved it.
"My God," I said to the insurance company. "The whole replica?"
"Yes sir."
"What about the rest of the town?"
"Totaled sir. The entire town has been catastrophically wiped from the face of the Earth."
"Wow."
"We estimate the damages to be around $85. There will be a plumber and an electrician there in the morning. Whole town should be completely replaced by four o'clock".
"What the hell am I supposed to do --homeless-- in the meantime?" I demanded. "And what happens with my full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded 90 Day Free AOL discs?"
"If you would like to check on the status of your claim, please press six."
"But I was just talking to somebody!"
"No you weren't. If you would like to speak to an operator, please press the Scroll Lock."
”The what? On the telephone?”
“Too late,” said the voice. “Welcome to the Main Directory …”
***
Around midnight the subsequent and comprehensive voice mail instructed "If you have a pastel colored DC-9 labeled 'Aloha' handy, press four".
I pressed four, and an insurance adjuster said I should just go to Vegas ...
[LOBO]
The flight to Vegas wasn't pleasant.
My full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded "90 Day Free" AOL discs was wiped out by a full-scale replica of an F-4 Tornado, which continued on to destroy the rest of our hometown Pianosa as we knew an loved it.
"My God," I said to the insurance company. "The whole replica?"
"Yes sir."
"What about the rest of the town?"
"Totaled sir. The entire town has been catastrophically wiped from the face of the Earth."
"Wow."
"We estimate the damages to be around $85. There will be a plumber and an electrician there in the morning. Whole town should be completely replaced by four o'clock".
"What the hell am I supposed to do --homeless-- in the meantime?" I demanded. "And what happens with my full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded 90 Day Free AOL discs?"
"If you would like to check on the status of your claim, please press six."
"But I was just talking to somebody!"
"No you weren't. If you would like to speak to an operator, please press the Scroll Lock."
”The what? On the telephone?”
“Too late,” said the voice. “Welcome to the Main Directory …”
Around midnight the subsequent and comprehensive voice mail instructed "If you have a pastel colored DC-9 labeled 'Aloha' handy, press four".
I pressed four, and an insurance adjuster said I should just go to Vegas ...
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