Predator Press
[LOBO]
Santa was playing right into my hands.
My plan was to challenge him to a personal duel --one on one-- whereas I would run around like a sissy until the fat bastard was exhausted, and then kick his ass good and proper.
But Santa dismounted Slayer with surprising vitality. Flexing briefly, his red and white outfit tatters to shreds, falling to the ground.
Thanks a lot, Nordic Track.
Saturday
Tie Dye
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"Lemme get this straight," says Beautiful White Stallion. "Sorry Jimmy," he adds.
Jimmy giggles.
"You guys want access to Ethan's one and only very expensive and powerful Hyperdimensional Generator," he guffaws, "The one I'm guarding, because it's part of an elaborate plan to oust his beloved new Vice President and CEO?"
We all just kind of looked at each other.
That pretty much summed it up, really.
"Should be a piece of cake," I explain. "Ethan never said exactly where he hid the original LOBO. All he said was that 'LOBO would be very happy there'." Looping my fingertips around my temples, I struggle trying to think like a complete moron. "I'm thinking it's someplace like Romper Room ... "
Beautiful White Stallion sighs, thinking. "She's pretty wild in the sack, you know."
In unison: "We know!"
[Mr. I]
"Lemme get this straight," says Beautiful White Stallion. "Sorry Jimmy," he adds.
Jimmy giggles.
"You guys want access to Ethan's one and only very expensive and powerful Hyperdimensional Generator," he guffaws, "The one I'm guarding, because it's part of an elaborate plan to oust his beloved new Vice President and CEO?"
We all just kind of looked at each other.
That pretty much summed it up, really.
"Should be a piece of cake," I explain. "Ethan never said exactly where he hid the original LOBO. All he said was that 'LOBO would be very happy there'." Looping my fingertips around my temples, I struggle trying to think like a complete moron. "I'm thinking it's someplace like Romper Room ... "
Beautiful White Stallion sighs, thinking. "She's pretty wild in the sack, you know."
In unison: "We know!"
Postal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Being captured by millions of bug-eating naked women isn't nearly as fun as it sounds.
But I'm bound to my coveted cool sparkly rock at the top of the plateau, so it's not a total loss.
A thundering black vehicle lazily circles the dark sky above me. As it drifts slowly closer, I can make out the vanity plate. It reads: "SANTA'S SLAYER".
"LOBO!" a voice booms down. "YOUR FREINDS HAVE ABANDONED YOU." A pause. "PLUS YOU LOST YOUR DENTAL PLAN."
"Stay away from my rock!" I says defiantly.
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE POWER OF THE LIGHT SIDE", the voice says.
"I'll never join you!" I says.
"WE MAIL OFF REBATES AND ACTUALLY GET THE MONEY BACK."
"Mail?" I spit.
A pause.
"WELL," says Kringle over the megaphone, "I WAS HOPING IT WOULDN'T COME TO THIS."
"Do your worst," says me.
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"No," I says. "Do I have to wear a uniform? Or sit in an office with a guy that farts a lot?"
Another pause.
"MAYBE".
"Fuck off!" I says.
"IT'S A PRETTY COOL UNIFORM REALLY. VERY MILITARY."
"What color is it?"
"I GUESS IT'S A TAUPE."
"What the fuck is a 'taupe'?"
"IT'S A KIND OF DUSKY BROWNISH-GREY, I SUPPOSE."
"What are you people hiding in? Shit?"
Suddenly, the whole sky is filled by the mighty dragon Scraps. Leathery wings flapping, they rhythmically obliterate the horizon.
I can hear the explosive sound of his wings, his breathing.
An eye the size of a billboard is mere meters from my face.
My bowels voided.
"Nice going, dumbass!" I yell. "What color is clean underwear in this dimension?"
[LOBO]
Being captured by millions of bug-eating naked women isn't nearly as fun as it sounds.
But I'm bound to my coveted cool sparkly rock at the top of the plateau, so it's not a total loss.
A thundering black vehicle lazily circles the dark sky above me. As it drifts slowly closer, I can make out the vanity plate. It reads: "SANTA'S SLAYER".
"LOBO!" a voice booms down. "YOUR FREINDS HAVE ABANDONED YOU." A pause. "PLUS YOU LOST YOUR DENTAL PLAN."
"Stay away from my rock!" I says defiantly.
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE POWER OF THE LIGHT SIDE", the voice says.
"I'll never join you!" I says.
"WE MAIL OFF REBATES AND ACTUALLY GET THE MONEY BACK."
"Mail?" I spit.
A pause.
"WELL," says Kringle over the megaphone, "I WAS HOPING IT WOULDN'T COME TO THIS."
"Do your worst," says me.
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"No," I says. "Do I have to wear a uniform? Or sit in an office with a guy that farts a lot?"
Another pause.
"MAYBE".
"Fuck off!" I says.
"IT'S A PRETTY COOL UNIFORM REALLY. VERY MILITARY."
"What color is it?"
"I GUESS IT'S A TAUPE."
"What the fuck is a 'taupe'?"
"IT'S A KIND OF DUSKY BROWNISH-GREY, I SUPPOSE."
"What are you people hiding in? Shit?"
Suddenly, the whole sky is filled by the mighty dragon Scraps. Leathery wings flapping, they rhythmically obliterate the horizon.
I can hear the explosive sound of his wings, his breathing.
An eye the size of a billboard is mere meters from my face.
My bowels voided.
"Nice going, dumbass!" I yell. "What color is clean underwear in this dimension?"
Cris-Crossed
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
A fucking mandatory meeting? On Saturday Morning?
Don't get me wrong. Ethan's a great man. A towering economic, political and philosophical success story of historic --possibly even epic-- proportion.
But I will kill him if I have to.
Head between my knees, I massage blinding pain from my temples with almost tearful futility.
Ethan isn't here yet, but everyone else is.
Whatever this is, it's a big deal.
***
Ethan takes the podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he clears his throat, and adjusts the microphone slightly. "First I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your weekend and coming here this morning. In that spirit, I'll keep this short and get right to the point."
Brief nervous murmurs swell in the room, utterly silenced when Ethan continues.
"Please allow me to take this opportunity to introduce you to the new Vice President and CEO of Hawley Enterprises." The room darkens. "I give you Babs!"
Thundering drums sear my cerebral cortex as a spotlight reveals a curvy silhouette sitting awkwardly in a chair. Groin never losing contact with a vertical pole, she scoops a briefcase up standing and kicks the chair away, the back of her ankle landing gracefully above her head. Then, with an assertive, lurid and determined gait, she walks toward the podium keeping time with the excruciatingly explosive music.
Please kill me.
Dazzling fireworks go off, and the lightshow starts. "BABS" is spelled out in flames behind the strutting, nubile beauty.
Everyone stands and applauds.
I tug at Sapphire, pulling her ear down to me. "She's getting LOBO's job?" I stammer.
"I guess," says Sapphire sideways so her eyes don't leave the spectacle.
I'm sensing some resentment here. "How'd she pull that off?" I manage.
Babs, arriving at the podium, drops her thin briefcase. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from inside her bra with one hand, she sticks it under Ethan's nose. With the other, she grabs his crotch.
Applauding, Sapphire continues, "I couldn't possibly begin to guess."
[Mr. I]
A fucking mandatory meeting? On Saturday Morning?
Don't get me wrong. Ethan's a great man. A towering economic, political and philosophical success story of historic --possibly even epic-- proportion.
But I will kill him if I have to.
Head between my knees, I massage blinding pain from my temples with almost tearful futility.
Ethan isn't here yet, but everyone else is.
Whatever this is, it's a big deal.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he clears his throat, and adjusts the microphone slightly. "First I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your weekend and coming here this morning. In that spirit, I'll keep this short and get right to the point."
Brief nervous murmurs swell in the room, utterly silenced when Ethan continues.
"Please allow me to take this opportunity to introduce you to the new Vice President and CEO of Hawley Enterprises." The room darkens. "I give you Babs!"
Thundering drums sear my cerebral cortex as a spotlight reveals a curvy silhouette sitting awkwardly in a chair. Groin never losing contact with a vertical pole, she scoops a briefcase up standing and kicks the chair away, the back of her ankle landing gracefully above her head. Then, with an assertive, lurid and determined gait, she walks toward the podium keeping time with the excruciatingly explosive music.
Please kill me.
Dazzling fireworks go off, and the lightshow starts. "BABS" is spelled out in flames behind the strutting, nubile beauty.
Everyone stands and applauds.
I tug at Sapphire, pulling her ear down to me. "She's getting LOBO's job?" I stammer.
"I guess," says Sapphire sideways so her eyes don't leave the spectacle.
I'm sensing some resentment here. "How'd she pull that off?" I manage.
Babs, arriving at the podium, drops her thin briefcase. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from inside her bra with one hand, she sticks it under Ethan's nose. With the other, she grabs his crotch.
Applauding, Sapphire continues, "I couldn't possibly begin to guess."
Friday
Pigs
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
"Thank you for joining us," says the guy. He flips his FBI badge. "My name is Agent Parker."
"Yeah, okay," I says, flirting with the waitress.
Parker continues, "You understand it's your Patriotic Duty to elaborate on the," he pauses, "various activities you have alarmed us to."
"'Patriotic Duty' my ass," I says, wolfing the omlette down. "I'm making six figures annually now, after thirty years at eighteen-thousand per. What the fuck are you making? Forty? You're maybe, what, twenty four?"
"Twenty-six," Parker offers.
"Twenty six, fuck off," I says chewing loudly. "I've eaten Twinkies older'n you I bought on e-bay." I scrarf like a whole piece of french toast in my mouth. "I was waking up on sidewalks and sleeping under bridges at your age. Now I finally got a good gig going."
Slopping up the plate with my toast, I drive it home. "If you want intelligence, my 'cash flow' issues are going to have to be," I point at him with my soggy french toast, "... mitigated."
[Mr. Insanity]
"Thank you for joining us," says the guy. He flips his FBI badge. "My name is Agent Parker."
"Yeah, okay," I says, flirting with the waitress.
Parker continues, "You understand it's your Patriotic Duty to elaborate on the," he pauses, "various activities you have alarmed us to."
"'Patriotic Duty' my ass," I says, wolfing the omlette down. "I'm making six figures annually now, after thirty years at eighteen-thousand per. What the fuck are you making? Forty? You're maybe, what, twenty four?"
"Twenty-six," Parker offers.
"Twenty six, fuck off," I says chewing loudly. "I've eaten Twinkies older'n you I bought on e-bay." I scrarf like a whole piece of french toast in my mouth. "I was waking up on sidewalks and sleeping under bridges at your age. Now I finally got a good gig going."
Slopping up the plate with my toast, I drive it home. "If you want intelligence, my 'cash flow' issues are going to have to be," I point at him with my soggy french toast, "... mitigated."
Inhuman Resources
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
Dr. Keller released me after only a few days, and Ethan had Rosalyn Gates --Hawly Enterprises' Human Resources Director-- pick me up from Bertram.
I immediately think I'm getting fired. Could be for anything from the bad PR, being "institutionalized", to increasing insurance liability.
But if I'm getting fired, I'm getting fired behind the wheel, dammit. Besides, Rosalyn drives a spiff new Mustang I want to check out.
Reluctantly, she gets into the passenger side of her own car, and I peel out of the hospital parking lot.
***
Rosalyn looks different in natural light. A fit and attractive woman in maybe her early forties, she's always smiling and friendly, but now I see how that has worn on her over the years: she looks like a woman who is psychotically sick to death of smiling and being friendly.
An uncomfortable silence ensues.
"What's this all about?" I finally ask, pushing 110 on I-65.
"Well, we received some rather alarming complaints from you," she grins readily, "and wanted to discuss them."
"That slut Babs has to go," I says. "Period."
"But there is no basis for her termination," beams Rosalyn. "In fact, she has been nothing but an exemplary employee."
"No basis?" I demand. "She's slept with 45% of the entire staff!"
My Blackberry tones, and I twist it on my belt so I can read the screen.
"Make that 49%," I says.
"Well, I certainly understand your concern," soothes Rosalyn in her well-rehearsed optimism. "But Mr Hawly has considered Sexual Harassment a frivolous matter ever since he started sleeping with Phoebe this August."
"I'm telling you, this bitch is trouble with a capital ... What!?!"
Police sirens. They're right behind me.
Fuck.
"You got any pens?" I demand.
"What?" smiles Rosalyn.
"Peeeeennnnzzzzz!" I repeat slowly, like I'm talking to a retard.
"Well, yes--"
"Throw them out the window."
She pauses, charmingly bewildered.
"Now!" I command, slowing to pull over.
***
I watch the cop saunter up slowly, thumbs in belt, through the rearview. He's already filling out the rather spectacular speeding ticket. I roll down the window as he approaches.
"Any idea why I pulled you over there Richard Petty?" he says condescendingly.
"No idea whatsoever, Officer," I says, picking my nose ferociously.
"I have you on radar doing over 110 in a 65 mile per hou--"
The cop freezes momentarily as he sees my finger working an emerald mine, wiping the nuggets on the steering wheel.
After a second of thought, he closes the small tablet. "So I'm giving you a verbal warning," he says.
"Thanks," I says.
Rosalyn pukes cheerfully on her own floorboard as we peel out again ...
[Mr. Insanity]
Dr. Keller released me after only a few days, and Ethan had Rosalyn Gates --Hawly Enterprises' Human Resources Director-- pick me up from Bertram.
I immediately think I'm getting fired. Could be for anything from the bad PR, being "institutionalized", to increasing insurance liability.
But if I'm getting fired, I'm getting fired behind the wheel, dammit. Besides, Rosalyn drives a spiff new Mustang I want to check out.
Reluctantly, she gets into the passenger side of her own car, and I peel out of the hospital parking lot.
Rosalyn looks different in natural light. A fit and attractive woman in maybe her early forties, she's always smiling and friendly, but now I see how that has worn on her over the years: she looks like a woman who is psychotically sick to death of smiling and being friendly.
An uncomfortable silence ensues.
"What's this all about?" I finally ask, pushing 110 on I-65.
"Well, we received some rather alarming complaints from you," she grins readily, "and wanted to discuss them."
"That slut Babs has to go," I says. "Period."
"But there is no basis for her termination," beams Rosalyn. "In fact, she has been nothing but an exemplary employee."
"No basis?" I demand. "She's slept with 45% of the entire staff!"
My Blackberry tones, and I twist it on my belt so I can read the screen.
"Make that 49%," I says.
"Well, I certainly understand your concern," soothes Rosalyn in her well-rehearsed optimism. "But Mr Hawly has considered Sexual Harassment a frivolous matter ever since he started sleeping with Phoebe this August."
"I'm telling you, this bitch is trouble with a capital ... What!?!"
Police sirens. They're right behind me.
Fuck.
"You got any pens?" I demand.
"What?" smiles Rosalyn.
"Peeeeennnnzzzzz!" I repeat slowly, like I'm talking to a retard.
"Well, yes--"
"Throw them out the window."
She pauses, charmingly bewildered.
"Now!" I command, slowing to pull over.
I watch the cop saunter up slowly, thumbs in belt, through the rearview. He's already filling out the rather spectacular speeding ticket. I roll down the window as he approaches.
"Any idea why I pulled you over there Richard Petty?" he says condescendingly.
"No idea whatsoever, Officer," I says, picking my nose ferociously.
"I have you on radar doing over 110 in a 65 mile per hou--"
The cop freezes momentarily as he sees my finger working an emerald mine, wiping the nuggets on the steering wheel.
After a second of thought, he closes the small tablet. "So I'm giving you a verbal warning," he says.
"Thanks," I says.
Rosalyn pukes cheerfully on her own floorboard as we peel out again ...
Thursday
Shadows of the Season
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Nobody suspects Babs is the scorned mistress of Kringle --introduced in the June 5 2006 blog entry titled "Writing on Fire"-- because nobody reads this blog now.
I can't warn Ethan, Phoebe, Sapphire or the Jaycees for two reasons: The first is I'm trapped in another dimension, asshole. The second is that despite my staggering brainiosity, my noggin is completely vacant of that little fact as well.
... I'm certainly not reading this sophomoric, banal tripe ...
***
As the naked women carry me down the mountain, a great feast is being prepared. And all the way, I'm peppered with questions like, "How was your day?" and "Do you think she's pretty?" and "Do I look fat naked?"
A cute blonde named Zima finally pries the television remote from my hands and asks, "What's life like in that," she makes quote signs with her hot, naked fingers, "other dimension?"
"Well, not having hot naked horny women around climbing mountains and cooking and stuff is pretty damn weird," I says. "And they have this paste over there they make out of teeth. They call it toothpaste--"
"What's that for?" asks Zima.
"I don't know," I says, trailing off.
***
A few minutes later Zima's still saying stuff, but now other hot, naked women have brought food under a covered tray. I'm sitting at the head of a long table, Zima to my right. There are bowls of melted butter and plates, but no eating utensils whatsoever.
"--and after the Great Feast," Zima continues, "then we have the Great Orgy." She pauses as she looks at me. "No kissing though."
"Great Feast?" I says. "What are we having?"
"Giant Lobster," she proclaims.
The servers uncover the tray, and I swear on my evil twin brother's eyes there was a red bug under there, like two feet long.
Frozen in abject horror, I stare down the length of the table and see endless hot, naked women hungrily tearing apart and devouring gigantic red bugs.
I screamed.
A lot.
[LOBO]
Nobody suspects Babs is the scorned mistress of Kringle --introduced in the June 5 2006 blog entry titled "Writing on Fire"-- because nobody reads this blog now.
I can't warn Ethan, Phoebe, Sapphire or the Jaycees for two reasons: The first is I'm trapped in another dimension, asshole. The second is that despite my staggering brainiosity, my noggin is completely vacant of that little fact as well.
... I'm certainly not reading this sophomoric, banal tripe ...
As the naked women carry me down the mountain, a great feast is being prepared. And all the way, I'm peppered with questions like, "How was your day?" and "Do you think she's pretty?" and "Do I look fat naked?"
A cute blonde named Zima finally pries the television remote from my hands and asks, "What's life like in that," she makes quote signs with her hot, naked fingers, "other dimension?"
"Well, not having hot naked horny women around climbing mountains and cooking and stuff is pretty damn weird," I says. "And they have this paste over there they make out of teeth. They call it toothpaste--"
"What's that for?" asks Zima.
"I don't know," I says, trailing off.
A few minutes later Zima's still saying stuff, but now other hot, naked women have brought food under a covered tray. I'm sitting at the head of a long table, Zima to my right. There are bowls of melted butter and plates, but no eating utensils whatsoever.
"--and after the Great Feast," Zima continues, "then we have the Great Orgy." She pauses as she looks at me. "No kissing though."
"Great Feast?" I says. "What are we having?"
"Giant Lobster," she proclaims.
The servers uncover the tray, and I swear on my evil twin brother's eyes there was a red bug under there, like two feet long.
Frozen in abject horror, I stare down the length of the table and see endless hot, naked women hungrily tearing apart and devouring gigantic red bugs.
I screamed.
A lot.
Sunday
Babs
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
When I came in, Phoebe and Sapphire stared in simple disbelief.
"Morning ladies," I says cheerily. Setting down my Starbucks, I proceed to hang my coat, whistling.
"What the hell are you doing here on a Sunday?" asks Sapphire.
"I don't know," I smile. "Just feeling a little productive I guess."
Sniffing the air, Phoebe looks at Sapphire. "He doesn't even smell like whisky and cheap hookers."
"No ladies," I sigh. "I'm turning my life around. From here on out, I'm a brand new man."
"Is this because LOBO is gone?"
"Probably," I shrug. "At least in part. But I think my luck is changing. You know that hot new chick Babs?"
"Uh," says Sapphire, looking at Phoebe nervously. "Yes ..."
"Let me tell you," I say, gyrating my hips in the air. "That chick is a freak."
"You had sex with Babs too?" says Phoebe.
"Yes I did," I say with unabashed smugness. "I did things with that chick that--" I pause, eyebrows furrowed. Turning slowly to Phoebe, I clear out my ear with a finger. "What do you mean, 'too'?"
Phoebe looks side to side nervously. "I had sex with her on Saturday."
I look at Sapphire, who holds her hands up shrugging.
"Phoebe, I didn't know you were bisexual."
"I'm not bisexual."
Sapphire eyes her carefully. "You had sex with Babs, but you're not bisexual?"
"I mean I've gotten off during massages but that's like a mutual-masturbation thing," Phoebe explains. "But Babs just started kissing me. Hard. And the next thing you know she's between my legs, sucking me off. She's really good at it." Then, trailing off in blissful thought, she adds, "Turns out, so am I ... "
I don't know whether to scream or go jerk off in my office.
"Besides," Phoebe continues. "It doesn't count as a lesbian thing. It is alternate-reality LOBO, right?"
My jaw drops.
Sapphire looks to me, eyes narrowed, "You did use protection, right?"
Suddenly, Ethan walks in, whistling. "Wow," he grins, setting down his cappuccino to hang his coat. "You just won't believe what a fantastic morning I've had."
[Mr. I]
When I came in, Phoebe and Sapphire stared in simple disbelief.
"Morning ladies," I says cheerily. Setting down my Starbucks, I proceed to hang my coat, whistling.
"What the hell are you doing here on a Sunday?" asks Sapphire.
"I don't know," I smile. "Just feeling a little productive I guess."
Sniffing the air, Phoebe looks at Sapphire. "He doesn't even smell like whisky and cheap hookers."
"No ladies," I sigh. "I'm turning my life around. From here on out, I'm a brand new man."
"Is this because LOBO is gone?"
"Probably," I shrug. "At least in part. But I think my luck is changing. You know that hot new chick Babs?"
"Uh," says Sapphire, looking at Phoebe nervously. "Yes ..."
"Let me tell you," I say, gyrating my hips in the air. "That chick is a freak."
"You had sex with Babs too?" says Phoebe.
"Yes I did," I say with unabashed smugness. "I did things with that chick that--" I pause, eyebrows furrowed. Turning slowly to Phoebe, I clear out my ear with a finger. "What do you mean, 'too'?"
Phoebe looks side to side nervously. "I had sex with her on Saturday."
I look at Sapphire, who holds her hands up shrugging.
"Phoebe, I didn't know you were bisexual."
"I'm not bisexual."
Sapphire eyes her carefully. "You had sex with Babs, but you're not bisexual?"
"I mean I've gotten off during massages but that's like a mutual-masturbation thing," Phoebe explains. "But Babs just started kissing me. Hard. And the next thing you know she's between my legs, sucking me off. She's really good at it." Then, trailing off in blissful thought, she adds, "Turns out, so am I ... "
I don't know whether to scream or go jerk off in my office.
"Besides," Phoebe continues. "It doesn't count as a lesbian thing. It is alternate-reality LOBO, right?"
My jaw drops.
Sapphire looks to me, eyes narrowed, "You did use protection, right?"
Suddenly, Ethan walks in, whistling. "Wow," he grins, setting down his cappuccino to hang his coat. "You just won't believe what a fantastic morning I've had."
Rise
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As far as dimensions go, eh, I've seen better.
But there's this really cool rock here. I mean it's all weird an flat an sparkly.
Eventually, I gotta get up 'an piss. Probably should work out this whole food and shelter issue too. I wonder if this is one of those dimensions that has Cheeto dispensers.
It could happen.
Suddenly, I realize I'm on a big, flat plateau under an electrified, pastel sky. Looking down over the edge, I spy millions of naked women kneeling and praying at something up here.
Every once in a while, they send up a hot emissary.
Exhausted from the long climb, the hardbodied beauty draws up using the last of her strength. Raising her tired arms toward me, her magnificent breasts heave as she cries, "Oh, strange visitor we beseech thee; there are no males in this dimension, please bless us with your mighty blessed throbbing Hammer of Thor."
"Why?" I yell down, echoing.
"That we may grasp and fondle thy genitalia roughly," she says, collapsing to her knees, mighty thighs bulging. "And foist it into ourselves like wild and rhythmic savage animals."
"But there's this really cool rock up here," I says. "And look, you are all like really far down there. Why don't you all just come on up?"
I swear to God the chicks in this dimension can be so lazy ...
"There's a really cool rock up here," I remind them.
[LOBO]
As far as dimensions go, eh, I've seen better.
But there's this really cool rock here. I mean it's all weird an flat an sparkly.
Eventually, I gotta get up 'an piss. Probably should work out this whole food and shelter issue too. I wonder if this is one of those dimensions that has Cheeto dispensers.
It could happen.
Suddenly, I realize I'm on a big, flat plateau under an electrified, pastel sky. Looking down over the edge, I spy millions of naked women kneeling and praying at something up here.
Every once in a while, they send up a hot emissary.
Exhausted from the long climb, the hardbodied beauty draws up using the last of her strength. Raising her tired arms toward me, her magnificent breasts heave as she cries, "Oh, strange visitor we beseech thee; there are no males in this dimension, please bless us with your mighty blessed throbbing Hammer of Thor."
"Why?" I yell down, echoing.
"That we may grasp and fondle thy genitalia roughly," she says, collapsing to her knees, mighty thighs bulging. "And foist it into ourselves like wild and rhythmic savage animals."
"But there's this really cool rock up here," I says. "And look, you are all like really far down there. Why don't you all just come on up?"
I swear to God the chicks in this dimension can be so lazy ...
"There's a really cool rock up here," I remind them.
Saturday
Kiss From a Rose
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"I don't know what else to say," says Ethan. "We've been good friends for a while. It won't be the same without you."
"What won't be the same? Are you leaving?"
Phoebe enters the room as Ethan puts a hand on LOBO's shoulder.
"I'm not the one who is facing extermination, am I?" he says. "The bottom line is, there are well-organized squads of Girl Scouts currently being briefed in how to kill you."
"Where are you sending him?" says Phoebe. "And will we ever see him again?"
"I've already got Max, Brighta and Vetter working on that." Ethan looks at LOBO for a long moment. "Haven't you ever seen what happens when you try to get rid of this guy? I'm sending him to another dimension, I'm not sending him to fucking Jersey for Chrissake."
"Jesus Christ," says LOBO. "I'm getting kicked out of a whole dimension again?"
Phoebe crosses to the bewildered being --the simple soul so shallow, flat and infinitely glacial no motive of evil could claw any purchase-- and kissed him goodbye.
"I'm trusting you," says LOBO to Ethan and Phoebe. "Well, I'm trusting Ethan more. I've known Phoebe has been wanting to get into my pants for a long time now."
Phoebe, with a fistful of LOBO's hair, glared menacingly.
***
Into The Vortex LOBO went.
"God I can't believe he fell for that," says Ethan, elated. Cutting the tip a fine cigar he says, "LOBO will be very happy where I sent him."
Phoebe, alarmed, says, "Wait a minute. Using a hyperdimensional vortex, you sent LOBO to another universe?"
"Yes," replies Ethan. "Hyperdimensional Vortexes aren't cheap you know--"
"Well, LOBO is maybe in another dimension," says Phoebe as she waves away the smoke, "But you got something back in return ..."
[Mr. I]
"I don't know what else to say," says Ethan. "We've been good friends for a while. It won't be the same without you."
"What won't be the same? Are you leaving?"
Phoebe enters the room as Ethan puts a hand on LOBO's shoulder.
"I'm not the one who is facing extermination, am I?" he says. "The bottom line is, there are well-organized squads of Girl Scouts currently being briefed in how to kill you."
"Where are you sending him?" says Phoebe. "And will we ever see him again?"
"I've already got Max, Brighta and Vetter working on that." Ethan looks at LOBO for a long moment. "Haven't you ever seen what happens when you try to get rid of this guy? I'm sending him to another dimension, I'm not sending him to fucking Jersey for Chrissake."
"Jesus Christ," says LOBO. "I'm getting kicked out of a whole dimension again?"
Phoebe crosses to the bewildered being --the simple soul so shallow, flat and infinitely glacial no motive of evil could claw any purchase-- and kissed him goodbye.
"I'm trusting you," says LOBO to Ethan and Phoebe. "Well, I'm trusting Ethan more. I've known Phoebe has been wanting to get into my pants for a long time now."
Phoebe, with a fistful of LOBO's hair, glared menacingly.
Into The Vortex LOBO went.
"God I can't believe he fell for that," says Ethan, elated. Cutting the tip a fine cigar he says, "LOBO will be very happy where I sent him."
Phoebe, alarmed, says, "Wait a minute. Using a hyperdimensional vortex, you sent LOBO to another universe?"
"Yes," replies Ethan. "Hyperdimensional Vortexes aren't cheap you know--"
"Well, LOBO is maybe in another dimension," says Phoebe as she waves away the smoke, "But you got something back in return ..."
Thursday
Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me ....
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Jimmy Orlando, at the podium, continued. "Have any of you noticed that you have been to three funerals for LOBO in six months, and yet he's still here?"
Everyone except LOBO raised their hands.
The conference room lit up with a 3-D hologram of what was apparently our own beloved Milky Way galaxy.
“Cool!” breathed LOBO.
“Yes,” agreed Jimmy Orlando. “What you see now, highlighted in green, is our solar system.” A holographic arrow circled the area. “And here we see,” as another arrow drew our attention, “the recently renamed 'Steve Loves Amanda XOX' galaxy.”
“Slax,” volunteers LOBO helpfully.
“Yes,” Jimmy Orlando agrees again. “In 1997, this galaxy was commonly known as 12Xc25b. But in 1998, the International Star Registry renamed this galaxy, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’.”
“So?”
“Well, unfortunately, in the native language of the current occupants, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’ translates to 'Your mother is a douchebag-chuggin’ bitch so ugly she has to fake orgasms while masturbating'. In response, they have launched a devious plan: to manufacture millions of LOBOs, so there are millions of mindless subscribers overpaying for absolutely nothing whatsoever … the funds for which are to be filtered exclusively to boisterous and baseless propaganda and commercials designed to increase public interest and sympathy here on Earth. They call it: Plan Comcast.”
“Those bastards,” says Phoebe.
"We considered just renaming the thing, but that would've just made us change a lot of maps and astrological readings. So as of now, there is a worldwide call for LOBOcide. Insanely brutal, ruthless and excessive force has been authorized at the highest level of every government of the face of the Earth."
“Is that moral?” asked Phoebe.
“Is that legal?” asked Sapphire.
“Is there a bounty?” I asked.
“Is there going to be food at this thing?” asked LOBO. “At least bagels or something? I’m starving. Are we out of bagels? Are there any of those plastic jellys left? It's too cold in here and this coffee sucks, I might add. Can you turn on those cool graphics again?”
“The fact is,” sighs Jimmy Orlando, “it’s a Class-X Felony not to kill them.”
“This means you won’t turn on those cool graphics again, doesn’t it?” LOBO complains. “What time is break scheduled for? I have to use ‘The Head’, if you catch my drift—“
“Ooooh,” says Sapphire, reaching for her shotgun. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time—“
BLAM
My ears are ringing.
LOBO, missing the back of his head, slumped to the ground. I followed it closely looking down Sapphire’s barrel.
“You asshole!,” says Sapphire to me. “You didn’t even bring a gun. That kill was mine--"
“Take it outside, dammit!” yells Jimmy, on the ground, fingers in his ears. “Just look at this mess!”
“Hey, how do we know which one’s the original?” I ask.
"Ethan suspects he already has the original in custody," replies Jimmy Orlando. "The suspect has already pounced Anna Nicole Smith, but the Pork Chop Test is still pending." Jimmy Orlando stands, seeing a chunk of bloody brain tissue on his lapel. "You're paying for my dry cleaning, asshole!"
I barely hear. With Sapphire’s shotgun, I’m headed out into the LOBO-infested world.
… and I’m in a murderous mood.
[Mr. I]
Jimmy Orlando, at the podium, continued. "Have any of you noticed that you have been to three funerals for LOBO in six months, and yet he's still here?"
Everyone except LOBO raised their hands.
The conference room lit up with a 3-D hologram of what was apparently our own beloved Milky Way galaxy.
“Cool!” breathed LOBO.
“Yes,” agreed Jimmy Orlando. “What you see now, highlighted in green, is our solar system.” A holographic arrow circled the area. “And here we see,” as another arrow drew our attention, “the recently renamed 'Steve Loves Amanda XOX' galaxy.”
“Slax,” volunteers LOBO helpfully.
“Yes,” Jimmy Orlando agrees again. “In 1997, this galaxy was commonly known as 12Xc25b. But in 1998, the International Star Registry renamed this galaxy, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’.”
“So?”
“Well, unfortunately, in the native language of the current occupants, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’ translates to 'Your mother is a douchebag-chuggin’ bitch so ugly she has to fake orgasms while masturbating'. In response, they have launched a devious plan: to manufacture millions of LOBOs, so there are millions of mindless subscribers overpaying for absolutely nothing whatsoever … the funds for which are to be filtered exclusively to boisterous and baseless propaganda and commercials designed to increase public interest and sympathy here on Earth. They call it: Plan Comcast.”
“Those bastards,” says Phoebe.
"We considered just renaming the thing, but that would've just made us change a lot of maps and astrological readings. So as of now, there is a worldwide call for LOBOcide. Insanely brutal, ruthless and excessive force has been authorized at the highest level of every government of the face of the Earth."
“Is that moral?” asked Phoebe.
“Is that legal?” asked Sapphire.
“Is there a bounty?” I asked.
“Is there going to be food at this thing?” asked LOBO. “At least bagels or something? I’m starving. Are we out of bagels? Are there any of those plastic jellys left? It's too cold in here and this coffee sucks, I might add. Can you turn on those cool graphics again?”
“The fact is,” sighs Jimmy Orlando, “it’s a Class-X Felony not to kill them.”
“This means you won’t turn on those cool graphics again, doesn’t it?” LOBO complains. “What time is break scheduled for? I have to use ‘The Head’, if you catch my drift—“
“Ooooh,” says Sapphire, reaching for her shotgun. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time—“
BLAM
My ears are ringing.
LOBO, missing the back of his head, slumped to the ground. I followed it closely looking down Sapphire’s barrel.
“You asshole!,” says Sapphire to me. “You didn’t even bring a gun. That kill was mine--"
“Take it outside, dammit!” yells Jimmy, on the ground, fingers in his ears. “Just look at this mess!”
“Hey, how do we know which one’s the original?” I ask.
"Ethan suspects he already has the original in custody," replies Jimmy Orlando. "The suspect has already pounced Anna Nicole Smith, but the Pork Chop Test is still pending." Jimmy Orlando stands, seeing a chunk of bloody brain tissue on his lapel. "You're paying for my dry cleaning, asshole!"
I barely hear. With Sapphire’s shotgun, I’m headed out into the LOBO-infested world.
… and I’m in a murderous mood.
Wednesday
Smooth
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Well, it was weird.
After Decontamination, we were led out a back door where a skyscraper seemed to leap out of the geography like a bizarre dimensional accident.
I assure you, aside from the bar we entered by, there was nothing remarkable in this area; no houses, nothing save a quarry and a Starbucks.
Jimmy Orlando met us at the entrance, boldly emblazoned:
THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
BUT THE LATTER IS INFINITELY EASIER TO AIM
My first question was: "JususfuckingChristhowdoplanesnotcrashintothis thingandomyGoddoesTheGovernment knowaboutthisweareinsuchdeepshitweareinfuckindeepshitweareindeepshit!!!"
"Relax baby," smiles Jimmy. "They're all renters."
[Mr. I]
Well, it was weird.
After Decontamination, we were led out a back door where a skyscraper seemed to leap out of the geography like a bizarre dimensional accident.
I assure you, aside from the bar we entered by, there was nothing remarkable in this area; no houses, nothing save a quarry and a Starbucks.
Jimmy Orlando met us at the entrance, boldly emblazoned:
BUT THE LATTER IS INFINITELY EASIER TO AIM
My first question was: "JususfuckingChristhowdoplanesnotcrashintothis thingandomyGoddoesTheGovernment knowaboutthisweareinsuchdeepshitweareinfuckindeepshitweareindeepshit!!!"
"Relax baby," smiles Jimmy. "They're all renters."
Monday
We Don't Normally Smell Like This, Ma'am
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
All that really matters is the fast flow of information, and the effectiveness of the response.
On the bridge of the mighty war vessel LOBONIA, the darkly-clad figure kneeled in front of the bridge's viewscreen, inhaling, exhaling, for what seems an eternity.
Suddenly he stands, totters, and collapses like a sack of sand.
The crew of the bridge lights up with laughter as Sith Lord LOBO slowly "comes to."
"Told you!" titters Navigator LOBO.
"Did you see the look on his face?" bursts Communications LOBO.
"Omigod, that was awesome," says Sith Lord LOBO. Staggering to his feet and laughing, Sith Lord LOBO grabs a clipboard and beats Medical LOBO to a one-celled organism that owes a shit-ton of student loans.
"You killed Medical LOBO for not recommending against us playing a prank on you?" asks a suddenly serious Engineer LOBO.
"No," says Sith Lord LOBO. "I killed him for inoculating me against Diphtheria. I fucking hate needles."
Suddenly everything vanishes. POOF!
A blinding square of light noisily appears.
"LOBO!" demands a megaphoned voice from outside the Holo-Trailer.
"What?" says LOBO, suddenly aware that he's in a Holo-Trailer.
The voice says, "You've been officially captured by Hawly Enterprises." The disembodied static punctuates his instructions. "And we are fully authorized to blow your nuts off in order to take you without incident."
"I'm cool," I says, raising my hands.
[Mr. I]
All that really matters is the fast flow of information, and the effectiveness of the response.
On the bridge of the mighty war vessel LOBONIA, the darkly-clad figure kneeled in front of the bridge's viewscreen, inhaling, exhaling, for what seems an eternity.
Suddenly he stands, totters, and collapses like a sack of sand.
The crew of the bridge lights up with laughter as Sith Lord LOBO slowly "comes to."
"Told you!" titters Navigator LOBO.
"Did you see the look on his face?" bursts Communications LOBO.
"Omigod, that was awesome," says Sith Lord LOBO. Staggering to his feet and laughing, Sith Lord LOBO grabs a clipboard and beats Medical LOBO to a one-celled organism that owes a shit-ton of student loans.
"You killed Medical LOBO for not recommending against us playing a prank on you?" asks a suddenly serious Engineer LOBO.
"No," says Sith Lord LOBO. "I killed him for inoculating me against Diphtheria. I fucking hate needles."
Suddenly everything vanishes. POOF!
A blinding square of light noisily appears.
"LOBO!" demands a megaphoned voice from outside the Holo-Trailer.
"What?" says LOBO, suddenly aware that he's in a Holo-Trailer.
The voice says, "You've been officially captured by Hawly Enterprises." The disembodied static punctuates his instructions. "And we are fully authorized to blow your nuts off in order to take you without incident."
"I'm cool," I says, raising my hands.
Friday
A Simple Blue Dot
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
****
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
Sunday
Jesus Just Left Chicago
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The quote that I remember from September Eleventh was that we had suffered a "Failure of Imagination."
So how --years after that-- did Katrina escape the "Mind's Eye" under our watchful vigil? How could a new tragedy, not even an act of war, be handled even worse?
And even if you give the government a pass on 9/11, how can people --not in some third world country like France but in Amerika-- receive no appropriate suffrage? How can Americans have no electricity, plumbing, or clean water?
And where the hell is Sally Struthers on this?
Hm?
[LOBO]
The quote that I remember from September Eleventh was that we had suffered a "Failure of Imagination."
So how --years after that-- did Katrina escape the "Mind's Eye" under our watchful vigil? How could a new tragedy, not even an act of war, be handled even worse?
And even if you give the government a pass on 9/11, how can people --not in some third world country like France but in Amerika-- receive no appropriate suffrage? How can Americans have no electricity, plumbing, or clean water?
And where the hell is Sally Struthers on this?
Hm?
Friday
You Deserve a Refund
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a blogger, I'm enjoying the same crazy rockstar life as any other blogger does. And trust me, if you are among the lucky few to know someone else that blogs, ask them when the last time they were being blown by six chicks in a limousine absolutely dusty with poppy derivatives: if it's over two weeks, I'll manage the dumb ass myself for a while. You know, make it a contest or something.
It's really hard to blog when hot chicks are always throwing themselves on the hood of my car as I go about my otherwise enriched, healthy, robust and fulfilling life. And christ the accounting hassles! Every goddamned day, it's "I need a copy of your 1967 F-16 Form," and "IRS Audit," and "You bought a what?!?". I swear to god I think I'd like to just liquid nitrogen the whole Fiscal Unit, and chip little pieces off of the bastards until they're just a big melting slushy gob of useless DNA.
So, on the bright side, Predator Press will likely be hiring soon.
It's tough being this ragingly successful! Just ask Paris Hilton. Poor thing ... "overworked and drinking on an empty stomach", she gets a DUI. A DUI! She was 'overworked', it seems, making fun of the middle class.
Us.
That sucks. If I were you, I'd be pissed; I was always hoping Charlize Theron would pop up on "Simple Life" and beat that skinny, polluted flake with a tire iron. Well, after a decent lesbian kiss anyways.
The networks need this to happen. They are going to have a hell of a time recouping from this Crocodile Dundee debacle aka Steve Irwin. By the way, hello, America doesn't give a shit about animals; we were just preoccupied at The Deli, waiting with bated breath for a nice cut of meat while TIVOing a new tragedy. We need a new Mike Tyson, JonBenet, O.J. Simpson for Chrissake!
We create these monsters. And voting with our wallets, we pay them, knowing full well we want nothing more than a good fucking show.
So who is the monster?
I don't really care if you watch, frankly. But at least take Paris Hilton and Johnny Knoxsville and sterilize these people before we lose two centuries of Evolution [Or 6.99999 years of Creation: You go God Squad!].
In the meantime, all you hot brunettes and athletic, nubile blondes should not badger me for my phone number while I'm picking up those bagloads of cash on Wall Street anymore. It's almost harassment really. MY number, as always, is "1". It's easy to memorize because it looks so much like the letter "I", which coincidentally is my favorite letter ...
[LOBO]
As a blogger, I'm enjoying the same crazy rockstar life as any other blogger does. And trust me, if you are among the lucky few to know someone else that blogs, ask them when the last time they were being blown by six chicks in a limousine absolutely dusty with poppy derivatives: if it's over two weeks, I'll manage the dumb ass myself for a while. You know, make it a contest or something.
It's really hard to blog when hot chicks are always throwing themselves on the hood of my car as I go about my otherwise enriched, healthy, robust and fulfilling life. And christ the accounting hassles! Every goddamned day, it's "I need a copy of your 1967 F-16 Form," and "IRS Audit," and "You bought a what?!?". I swear to god I think I'd like to just liquid nitrogen the whole Fiscal Unit, and chip little pieces off of the bastards until they're just a big melting slushy gob of useless DNA.
So, on the bright side, Predator Press will likely be hiring soon.
It's tough being this ragingly successful! Just ask Paris Hilton. Poor thing ... "overworked and drinking on an empty stomach", she gets a DUI. A DUI! She was 'overworked', it seems, making fun of the middle class.
Us.
That sucks. If I were you, I'd be pissed; I was always hoping Charlize Theron would pop up on "Simple Life" and beat that skinny, polluted flake with a tire iron. Well, after a decent lesbian kiss anyways.
The networks need this to happen. They are going to have a hell of a time recouping from this Crocodile Dundee debacle aka Steve Irwin. By the way, hello, America doesn't give a shit about animals; we were just preoccupied at The Deli, waiting with bated breath for a nice cut of meat while TIVOing a new tragedy. We need a new Mike Tyson, JonBenet, O.J. Simpson for Chrissake!
We create these monsters. And voting with our wallets, we pay them, knowing full well we want nothing more than a good fucking show.
So who is the monster?
I don't really care if you watch, frankly. But at least take Paris Hilton and Johnny Knoxsville and sterilize these people before we lose two centuries of Evolution [Or 6.99999 years of Creation: You go God Squad!].
In the meantime, all you hot brunettes and athletic, nubile blondes should not badger me for my phone number while I'm picking up those bagloads of cash on Wall Street anymore. It's almost harassment really. MY number, as always, is "1". It's easy to memorize because it looks so much like the letter "I", which coincidentally is my favorite letter ...
Wednesday
A Tale of Two Phoebes
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
Tuesday
Smegs Quarantine
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
It was a rather pleasant experience really; it had the fleeting feeling of awaking from a long, deserved nap. I looked to Edward and Sapphire, and I could see by the look on their faces they had had the same experience.
LOBO, however, was screaming in pain. Smoke bellowed from his Levis, and the smell of burning flesh, hair and denim filled the room. Frantic, he grabbed the fire extinguisher, dousing his groin in a cloud of powder.
"OhmyGodohmyGodohMYGOD ... !" he cries. "Is it 'Stop, Drop and Roll', or is it 'Drop, Stop and--?!'"
Two guys, professionally blasé, offer buckets of ice which LOBO promptly pours down his pants. Hissing steam fills the air as the ice instantly boils and evaporates. "Goddamn it!", LOBO says, "I fucking hate when this happens!"
"Too bad sir," says an ice-bucket guy. "Next week, we're putting the entrance in the ladies bathroom of the 2007 Philadelphia Comic-Con ."
[Mr. I]
It was a rather pleasant experience really; it had the fleeting feeling of awaking from a long, deserved nap. I looked to Edward and Sapphire, and I could see by the look on their faces they had had the same experience.
LOBO, however, was screaming in pain. Smoke bellowed from his Levis, and the smell of burning flesh, hair and denim filled the room. Frantic, he grabbed the fire extinguisher, dousing his groin in a cloud of powder.
"OhmyGodohmyGodohMYGOD ... !" he cries. "Is it 'Stop, Drop and Roll', or is it 'Drop, Stop and--?!'"
Two guys, professionally blasé, offer buckets of ice which LOBO promptly pours down his pants. Hissing steam fills the air as the ice instantly boils and evaporates. "Goddamn it!", LOBO says, "I fucking hate when this happens!"
"Too bad sir," says an ice-bucket guy. "Next week, we're putting the entrance in the ladies bathroom of the 2007 Philadelphia Comic-Con ."
Monday
Hearts
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
We could still see the neon Burgermania sign from the lot we pulled into.
I thought it, and Edward said it: "Jesus Christ, this place is a dump!"
LOBO, parked to a fence, turns off the car. And as we sit looking bewildered at the ramshackle place through the car windows, he pops out and closes the door behind him. As the automatic seat belt retracts, I hear him say, "Come on guys. It's showtime."
"Why would Ethan buy a strip club?" asked Edward, peering around fearfully through the autoglass. "And in this neighborhood?"
My eyes lock on a dilapidated flashing sign. Contrary to the bleak surroundings, it blinks optimistically:
"Nipples Italy"
As Edward cautiously exits, I writhe out of the tiny car.
LOBO has already disappeared inside. A big guy in the door, obviously there to take cover charges, motions us over in a hushed, clandestine manner. "It's good to see you gentlemen," he whispers when we're in range. "We were a little concerned." While polite, his body language rushes us past him as he looks over our shoulders. "Head directly for the kitchen."
Bad music and cheap perfume explode to assault the senses as we open the doors and enter. Two thugs with earpieces see us, and while holding their ears with one hand they point to our left, muttering at nobody. My eyes follow their fingers, and LOBO is just disappearing around a corner. I spot Sapphire, naked as the day she was born, catching the eye of a security guy and casually collect her clothes.
I've never seen her naked before. And I'll be damned if Sapphire wasn't hot.
She was dressing as she descended the small stairway from the stage. The music skipped, and the MC announced another dancer.
Edward nudged me. "C'mon man. Let's move."
We passed the men's room, the ladies room; LOBO was nowhere in sight, and neither was another option in this darkened hall. Nonetheless, we kept walking down the unlit corridor until we got to a plain, unlabelled door, nondescript in every way given the environment. The hall darkened even further as Sapphire entered behind us. "Go!" she yelled.
I opened the door, and the room was electronically alive. There were, no shit, hundreds of monitors. Every inch of the club was under surveillance. Even the room they were in. A guy in weird sunglasses watches us on several monitors, sitting close to the door, says "Here they are," without looking up.
LOBO is standing in the middle of the buzzing room, looking around mystified. "Cool!" he says. "Ethan bought an arcade!"
Sapphire comes in behind us, in only heels and a scant bra of gold chains. She enters, closes the door, and holding golden chain panties, ducks to the ground to step into them through high heels. I see her swing them over her curvy figure in a slow, pornographic way.
I have a hard on the size of December.
"An arcade?" inquires Edward. "You mean you've never been here before?"
"You mean to say in an arcade in the kitchen of a kickass strip bar in a center of a crime-riddled slum?" LOBO pauses. "No. But you don't know Ethan. He really digs the working class. And you know he does a lot of charity work."
Still not looking up, sunglass guy says to no one, "Prepare for Decontamination and Biological Processing."
LOBO grabs his testicles, then everything goes white ...
[Mr. I]
We could still see the neon Burgermania sign from the lot we pulled into.
I thought it, and Edward said it: "Jesus Christ, this place is a dump!"
LOBO, parked to a fence, turns off the car. And as we sit looking bewildered at the ramshackle place through the car windows, he pops out and closes the door behind him. As the automatic seat belt retracts, I hear him say, "Come on guys. It's showtime."
"Why would Ethan buy a strip club?" asked Edward, peering around fearfully through the autoglass. "And in this neighborhood?"
My eyes lock on a dilapidated flashing sign. Contrary to the bleak surroundings, it blinks optimistically:
As Edward cautiously exits, I writhe out of the tiny car.
LOBO has already disappeared inside. A big guy in the door, obviously there to take cover charges, motions us over in a hushed, clandestine manner. "It's good to see you gentlemen," he whispers when we're in range. "We were a little concerned." While polite, his body language rushes us past him as he looks over our shoulders. "Head directly for the kitchen."
Bad music and cheap perfume explode to assault the senses as we open the doors and enter. Two thugs with earpieces see us, and while holding their ears with one hand they point to our left, muttering at nobody. My eyes follow their fingers, and LOBO is just disappearing around a corner. I spot Sapphire, naked as the day she was born, catching the eye of a security guy and casually collect her clothes.
I've never seen her naked before. And I'll be damned if Sapphire wasn't hot.
She was dressing as she descended the small stairway from the stage. The music skipped, and the MC announced another dancer.
Edward nudged me. "C'mon man. Let's move."
We passed the men's room, the ladies room; LOBO was nowhere in sight, and neither was another option in this darkened hall. Nonetheless, we kept walking down the unlit corridor until we got to a plain, unlabelled door, nondescript in every way given the environment. The hall darkened even further as Sapphire entered behind us. "Go!" she yelled.
I opened the door, and the room was electronically alive. There were, no shit, hundreds of monitors. Every inch of the club was under surveillance. Even the room they were in. A guy in weird sunglasses watches us on several monitors, sitting close to the door, says "Here they are," without looking up.
LOBO is standing in the middle of the buzzing room, looking around mystified. "Cool!" he says. "Ethan bought an arcade!"
Sapphire comes in behind us, in only heels and a scant bra of gold chains. She enters, closes the door, and holding golden chain panties, ducks to the ground to step into them through high heels. I see her swing them over her curvy figure in a slow, pornographic way.
I have a hard on the size of December.
"An arcade?" inquires Edward. "You mean you've never been here before?"
"You mean to say in an arcade in the kitchen of a kickass strip bar in a center of a crime-riddled slum?" LOBO pauses. "No. But you don't know Ethan. He really digs the working class. And you know he does a lot of charity work."
Still not looking up, sunglass guy says to no one, "Prepare for Decontamination and Biological Processing."
LOBO grabs his testicles, then everything goes white ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g...
