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!"
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