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."
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