Screwed
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Well, we can get where LOBO is, the problem lies in that we can't come back the same way.
Ethan, I'm sure, did that on purpose. So LOBO wouldn't get bored and wander back prematurely into an entire universe of people still murderously pissed at him. But this whole Foley-Hastert fiasco might be just the ticket, really; that kid was expensive to hire, but worth every penny.
Oh, come on ... don't be so judgmental. I'll bet 99.9999% of you never even knew LOBO was alive in the first place, and here you all are killing LOBOs by the overflowing truckload.
You people sicken me.
***
I take the elevator to Ethan's office for two reasons. First, I want my fruit basket and props for successfully navigating the PR for his best friend's dimensional return. Second, I wanted to congratulate him for capturing the official lead worldwide for killing overflowing truckloads of LOBOs.
He nudged me out by sixteen.
But as the elevator opens, the air explodes with thick hostility.
"Tramp!" yells Ethan.
[glass breaking]
"Whore!" yells Babs.
A frying pan wangs off of the elevator door. Dented, it rolls to a stop at my feet.
While I stare at it, frozen in panic, a tiny person in a suit staggers in. He's holding his forehead, but I recognize him instantly.
To picture Cobe Ryant, the Hawley Enterprises "Director of Operations", picture a pasty skillet-faced cross between E.T. and Golum in an expensive suit.
This guy is so profoundly ugly, I suspect we're related.
"Down please," he says politely, leaning exhausted against the wall.
I look at the buttons, trying to think. "Was that Ethan and Babs fighting?" I says, trying to pick a safe floor while tapping the DOOR CLOSE button.
"Yes," wheezes Cobe.
I press P. "Why?"
"She keeps TIVOing over his episodes of "Who Wants to Eat Bugs and Marry a Millionaire," he says, trying to calm down. "She recorded Lost over the season finale." He sighs, shaking his head, "Now we'll never know how it turned out."
I'm watching the overhead lights intensely counting down to my car. My very fast car. With a very full tank of gas. "So why were you up there, anyway?"
"Negotiating the breakup," he says matter-of-factly as the doors open. We step out in a fast, tense walk. "She gets everything south of Interstate 80, with the exception of Mexico, Texas, all copper holdings in South America, and various, eh, unmapped areas of Columbia--"
As I stop Cobe by his sleeve, the other elevator dings.
"Ethan gave up Vegas?" I ask in disbelief.
The elevator opens to audible choked sobbing. Ethan emerges, tears streaming from bloodshot eyes, reading the thick agreement.
"Aw," he wails. "I didn't even get Reno?"
"I'll give you a ten-second head start," I growl, pulling Cobe's face to mine by his lapel, "before I start killing people until there aren't even rumors you ever lived."
"NOT SO FAST," says a mysterious silhouette.
"Dude," I says, "How do you do a 'mysterious silhouette' thing in a well-lit parking lot?"
I hear the familiar clicks and whirrs of cybernetic Brad Pitt legs as the figure emerges, brandishing an AR-15 pointed at my head.
"Dash Cunning," I says. "The Pro-Choice movement's poster boy himself."
He looks, honestly, a bit confused for a second.
Shaking it off, he sneers "I KNOW YOU ARE, BUT WHAT AM I?"
[Mr. I]
Well, we can get where LOBO is, the problem lies in that we can't come back the same way.
Ethan, I'm sure, did that on purpose. So LOBO wouldn't get bored and wander back prematurely into an entire universe of people still murderously pissed at him. But this whole Foley-Hastert fiasco might be just the ticket, really; that kid was expensive to hire, but worth every penny.
Oh, come on ... don't be so judgmental. I'll bet 99.9999% of you never even knew LOBO was alive in the first place, and here you all are killing LOBOs by the overflowing truckload.
You people sicken me.
I take the elevator to Ethan's office for two reasons. First, I want my fruit basket and props for successfully navigating the PR for his best friend's dimensional return. Second, I wanted to congratulate him for capturing the official lead worldwide for killing overflowing truckloads of LOBOs.
He nudged me out by sixteen.
But as the elevator opens, the air explodes with thick hostility.
"Tramp!" yells Ethan.
[glass breaking]
"Whore!" yells Babs.
A frying pan wangs off of the elevator door. Dented, it rolls to a stop at my feet.
While I stare at it, frozen in panic, a tiny person in a suit staggers in. He's holding his forehead, but I recognize him instantly.
To picture Cobe Ryant, the Hawley Enterprises "Director of Operations", picture a pasty skillet-faced cross between E.T. and Golum in an expensive suit.
This guy is so profoundly ugly, I suspect we're related.
"Down please," he says politely, leaning exhausted against the wall.
I look at the buttons, trying to think. "Was that Ethan and Babs fighting?" I says, trying to pick a safe floor while tapping the DOOR CLOSE button.
"Yes," wheezes Cobe.
I press P. "Why?"
"She keeps TIVOing over his episodes of "Who Wants to Eat Bugs and Marry a Millionaire," he says, trying to calm down. "She recorded Lost over the season finale." He sighs, shaking his head, "Now we'll never know how it turned out."
I'm watching the overhead lights intensely counting down to my car. My very fast car. With a very full tank of gas. "So why were you up there, anyway?"
"Negotiating the breakup," he says matter-of-factly as the doors open. We step out in a fast, tense walk. "She gets everything south of Interstate 80, with the exception of Mexico, Texas, all copper holdings in South America, and various, eh, unmapped areas of Columbia--"
As I stop Cobe by his sleeve, the other elevator dings.
"Ethan gave up Vegas?" I ask in disbelief.
The elevator opens to audible choked sobbing. Ethan emerges, tears streaming from bloodshot eyes, reading the thick agreement.
"Aw," he wails. "I didn't even get Reno?"
"I'll give you a ten-second head start," I growl, pulling Cobe's face to mine by his lapel, "before I start killing people until there aren't even rumors you ever lived."
"NOT SO FAST," says a mysterious silhouette.
"Dude," I says, "How do you do a 'mysterious silhouette' thing in a well-lit parking lot?"
I hear the familiar clicks and whirrs of cybernetic Brad Pitt legs as the figure emerges, brandishing an AR-15 pointed at my head.
"Dash Cunning," I says. "The Pro-Choice movement's poster boy himself."
He looks, honestly, a bit confused for a second.
Shaking it off, he sneers "I KNOW YOU ARE, BUT WHAT AM I?"
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