Silver Bullet
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
LOBO woke fourteen hours later.
Weary of waking up in strange cities handcuffed and dangling from highway overpasses, he had more or less quit drinking and drugging since mid-2005. Still, there was a certain anxiety involved in waking up and not knowing where he was; digging his nails into the couch until his knuckles were white, he clung for dear life until the book fell off his face and he realized he was in one of Ethan's spacious offices.
He waited a few moments quietly for his heart to stop racing.
Aside from this daily whiplash into consciousness, morning minus a raging hangover augmented with vertigo and overbearing automobile exhaust wasn't an entirely bad experience; he yawned and stretched, quietly contemplating breakfast in the receding fog of deep sleep.
The clock said 8:00.
Morning, presumably.
The harsh daylight probed the still room aggressively through the blinds he separated with his fingers. The streets below the Hawly Centre were bustling with activity.
A wonderful and familiar aroma crept in the room, and a thick sputtering sound came from the reception area. Simultaneously rubbing his eyes and scratching his balls, he blearily wandered out.
***
Empty.
Sapphire was late.
This really wasn't that uncommon as Sapphire moonlighted as a stripper. And given the noble, selfless nature of her alternate career choice, Ethan tended to give a lot of latitude when it came to her occasional tardiness.
The silvery coffee maker, on a timer set up the night before, dutifully began it's routine operation surrounded by eight equally-chromed little mugs. On the ornate table it rested was a small sign that read:
Please help yourself.
And right under that, it read:
(Except for LOBO)
A rather selective reader, LOBO ignored the second half of the sign.
Ethan strictly forbid LOBO's consumption of coffee.
But Ethan was in Mesopotamia.
Or Germany.
Or whatever.
***
Sapphire breathlessly hustled out of the elevator into the opulent hallway at around 8:10, and no sooner did her key touch the hand-carved double doors when the doors exploded open.
A bug-eyed, twitching LOBO pounced her in a fierce embrace.
"HiSapphireI'msogladtoseeyou Youlookbeautifulthismorningasalways Andyoucertainlydon'tneedaboobjob MrInsanityisjustanassholeandtryingtoexploityouforyourgoodies Icouldn'tfindatoothbrush IsthatpursearealPrada?It'sreallynicequalityleather Therearen'tanymessagesandIvacuumedthewholefloorandscrubbedtheceiling AndIalsodidEthan'staxessoyouwouldn'thavetogotoH&RBlocktomorrow."
[quick breath]
"Doyouwantanythingforlunch? IamthinkingCantoneseormaybeKorean I'mdefinitelyupforsomethingspicy PleaseforgivemeasImustbegoing IhavetofindareallytallbuildingsoIcanjumpintoouterspace IthinktheMarsRovermightneedanoilchangeandtirepressurechecked Bye!"
And he was gone.
In the office, Sapphire found a coffee cup on the floor next to the remnants of two sugar packets and a tiny plastic dairy creamer cup.
"Fuck!", she exclaimed as she ran for the phone.
*****
The 128th floor of the Montgomery Building, six miles away, was the Penthouse.
It was also the home office of the Fox Network local affiliate.
"Come on people," demanded the guy in a suit into an intercom sitting at the end of a long oak table. "Our ratings are completely in the toilet! We need a magic bullet here. Something fresh. Like a story about a rag-tag team of misfit underdog athletes who exceed everyone's expectations and triumph in the end. Or a prince giving up his throne so he can marry his one true love, a peasant girl that his parents can't stand. Or a love story about an creepy looking weird loser that has no money and somehow endears himself to some unlikely woman way too hot for him. Or maybe a group of pretentious, wisecracking yuppies making callow observations about the inane meaninglessness of their lives. Or a hospital show about the rigors of being brilliant, sexy emergency room doctors --or maybe lawyers-- whose lives are complicated by romance, professional ethics, ambition, and the passion for their careers. Has anyone ever done feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs? Everyone would watch shows based on feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs. Dammit people, we need edgy!"
"How about a reality show?" yells a prim, studious-looking woman in glasses way at the other end.
"Brilliant, Miss Fielding!" says suit guy into the plastic speaker. "How soon can we get it?"
"We're already in production, Mr Ward," she assured him. "Would you like to hear the premise?"
"Not really. What's it called?"
"Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire"
"I like it!"
"We're having some casting difficulties, however," she noted.
"Like what?"
"Well, we've already cast billionaire heiress Lexus Hilton as the hot single millionairess, and we've got Chip Intel as the ringer to win. But what we need is a sexist, unemployed, multi-phobic crazy broke loser slob as the foil. We can't seem to find anyone quite crude, repugnant, and simultaneously animated enough to pull it off."
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
Mr Ward pressed the intercom. "What's going on? Is there a fire? And do we have any available cameras to film the screaming casualties of the tragic incident?"
"No Mr. Ward," replied a different disembodied voice. "But I think you might want to come out to the reception area right away!"
***
Dripping sweat from running six miles and then up 128 flights of stairs, a random pile of human lie on it's face, tangled impossibly in the receptionist's phone cord.
"I'mtellinyoupeopleifsomeonedoesn'tcallNASAandtellemI'mgonnabelatetheFBIsgonnacomedownonthisplace andthenyou'llallbetotallyscrewed!!!" He wheezed breathlessly, flailing violently against the ground.
A security guard, getting a little too close, screamed as the frothing, foaming figure sunk it's teeth into his ankle.
"What the hell is that?" asked Mr. Ward, poking the snapping, snarling creature with a long stick.
"I don't know, sir," replied Miss Fielding, approaching cautiously.
Turning, LOBO got an eyeful of Miss Fielding's open-toed shoes at point-blank.
He screamed.
"GET THOSE SCALY HALITOSIS-RIDDLED TALONS THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!"
"Miss Fielding," grinned Mr. Ward to the retreating woman, pointing. "Get this man a contract!"
[Mr. I]
LOBO woke fourteen hours later.
Weary of waking up in strange cities handcuffed and dangling from highway overpasses, he had more or less quit drinking and drugging since mid-2005. Still, there was a certain anxiety involved in waking up and not knowing where he was; digging his nails into the couch until his knuckles were white, he clung for dear life until the book fell off his face and he realized he was in one of Ethan's spacious offices.
He waited a few moments quietly for his heart to stop racing.
Aside from this daily whiplash into consciousness, morning minus a raging hangover augmented with vertigo and overbearing automobile exhaust wasn't an entirely bad experience; he yawned and stretched, quietly contemplating breakfast in the receding fog of deep sleep.
The clock said 8:00.
Morning, presumably.
The harsh daylight probed the still room aggressively through the blinds he separated with his fingers. The streets below the Hawly Centre were bustling with activity.
A wonderful and familiar aroma crept in the room, and a thick sputtering sound came from the reception area. Simultaneously rubbing his eyes and scratching his balls, he blearily wandered out.
Empty.
Sapphire was late.
This really wasn't that uncommon as Sapphire moonlighted as a stripper. And given the noble, selfless nature of her alternate career choice, Ethan tended to give a lot of latitude when it came to her occasional tardiness.
The silvery coffee maker, on a timer set up the night before, dutifully began it's routine operation surrounded by eight equally-chromed little mugs. On the ornate table it rested was a small sign that read:
And right under that, it read:
A rather selective reader, LOBO ignored the second half of the sign.
Ethan strictly forbid LOBO's consumption of coffee.
But Ethan was in Mesopotamia.
Or Germany.
Or whatever.
Sapphire breathlessly hustled out of the elevator into the opulent hallway at around 8:10, and no sooner did her key touch the hand-carved double doors when the doors exploded open.
A bug-eyed, twitching LOBO pounced her in a fierce embrace.
"HiSapphireI'msogladtoseeyou Youlookbeautifulthismorningasalways Andyoucertainlydon'tneedaboobjob MrInsanityisjustanassholeandtryingtoexploityouforyourgoodies Icouldn'tfindatoothbrush IsthatpursearealPrada?It'sreallynicequalityleather Therearen'tanymessagesandIvacuumedthewholefloorandscrubbedtheceiling AndIalsodidEthan'staxessoyouwouldn'thavetogotoH&RBlocktomorrow."
[quick breath]
"Doyouwantanythingforlunch? IamthinkingCantoneseormaybeKorean I'mdefinitelyupforsomethingspicy PleaseforgivemeasImustbegoing IhavetofindareallytallbuildingsoIcanjumpintoouterspace IthinktheMarsRovermightneedanoilchangeandtirepressurechecked Bye!"
And he was gone.
In the office, Sapphire found a coffee cup on the floor next to the remnants of two sugar packets and a tiny plastic dairy creamer cup.
"Fuck!", she exclaimed as she ran for the phone.
The 128th floor of the Montgomery Building, six miles away, was the Penthouse.
It was also the home office of the Fox Network local affiliate.
"Come on people," demanded the guy in a suit into an intercom sitting at the end of a long oak table. "Our ratings are completely in the toilet! We need a magic bullet here. Something fresh. Like a story about a rag-tag team of misfit underdog athletes who exceed everyone's expectations and triumph in the end. Or a prince giving up his throne so he can marry his one true love, a peasant girl that his parents can't stand. Or a love story about an creepy looking weird loser that has no money and somehow endears himself to some unlikely woman way too hot for him. Or maybe a group of pretentious, wisecracking yuppies making callow observations about the inane meaninglessness of their lives. Or a hospital show about the rigors of being brilliant, sexy emergency room doctors --or maybe lawyers-- whose lives are complicated by romance, professional ethics, ambition, and the passion for their careers. Has anyone ever done feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs? Everyone would watch shows based on feisty and heroic talking cats and dogs. Dammit people, we need edgy!"
"How about a reality show?" yells a prim, studious-looking woman in glasses way at the other end.
"Brilliant, Miss Fielding!" says suit guy into the plastic speaker. "How soon can we get it?"
"We're already in production, Mr Ward," she assured him. "Would you like to hear the premise?"
"Not really. What's it called?"
"Who Wants to Eat Bugs While Marrying a Millionaire"
"I like it!"
"We're having some casting difficulties, however," she noted.
"Like what?"
"Well, we've already cast billionaire heiress Lexus Hilton as the hot single millionairess, and we've got Chip Intel as the ringer to win. But what we need is a sexist, unemployed, multi-phobic crazy broke loser slob as the foil. We can't seem to find anyone quite crude, repugnant, and simultaneously animated enough to pull it off."
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
Mr Ward pressed the intercom. "What's going on? Is there a fire? And do we have any available cameras to film the screaming casualties of the tragic incident?"
"No Mr. Ward," replied a different disembodied voice. "But I think you might want to come out to the reception area right away!"
Dripping sweat from running six miles and then up 128 flights of stairs, a random pile of human lie on it's face, tangled impossibly in the receptionist's phone cord.
"I'mtellinyoupeopleifsomeonedoesn'tcallNASAandtellemI'mgonnabelatetheFBIsgonnacomedownonthisplace andthenyou'llallbetotallyscrewed!!!" He wheezed breathlessly, flailing violently against the ground.
A security guard, getting a little too close, screamed as the frothing, foaming figure sunk it's teeth into his ankle.
"What the hell is that?" asked Mr. Ward, poking the snapping, snarling creature with a long stick.
"I don't know, sir," replied Miss Fielding, approaching cautiously.
Turning, LOBO got an eyeful of Miss Fielding's open-toed shoes at point-blank.
He screamed.
"GET THOSE SCALY HALITOSIS-RIDDLED TALONS THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!"
"Miss Fielding," grinned Mr. Ward to the retreating woman, pointing. "Get this man a contract!"
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