Predator Press
[Mr I]
“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”
“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.
“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”
The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”
“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.
“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”
“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”
“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“Not one lousy heart?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.
The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”
LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”
“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”
We both look at LOBO.
“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”
I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”
“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“
LOBO screamed.
Thursday
November Rain
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“You’re not going to believe this,” I says to LOBO. “Cobe got this wild hair up his tail about doing a nude pictorial of Phoebe.”
“No!” says LOBO.
“Yeah. We got the whole thing on the security cams. Watch this.”
It’s grainy, and the fresh snow is rather blinding on the monitor. At 7:45 am (as reflected in the corner of the screen), Phoebe pulls into the parking facility just in time for work. Even in her heeled boots, the tall, leggy beauty is graceful in ankle-deep snow.
Greeting her at the entrance is Cobe.
I fast forward a little. “This is pretty dull for a few minutes here. ‘Hi, nice to see you this morning’ blah blah. But then at precisely 7:51, here it goes--”
Whatever happened really isn’t clear. There is a slight twitch, maybe a flinch of Phoebe’s hip, and she continues on into the building, tossing something dark and round over her shoulder that flops shapelessly into the snow. Even in the slowest-motion the security cam provided, whatever happened seems to happen between frames.
Cobe remains standing motionless, a strange look crossing over his face.
“Now watch this,” I say, pointing to Cobe's chest with my pen.
A small dark circle appears on his parka, and Cobe slumps forward slightly. The white snow in front of him is now splattered in dark, thick fluid.
At 7:52, Cobe’s lifeless body finally crumples to the ground.
“The police are on the way, and our insurance companies are besides themselves,” I say.
“Why?” asks LOBO. “He asked Phoebe to do a nude pictorial. I would say that this is classified as an attempted suicide. And on the off-chance he survives, we can simply have him fired for attempted murder of himself.”
“Attempted nothing,” I say. “According to our records, Cobe opted for an HMO.”
“Well, why are we wasting time with an ambulance then? I say we 'can' him right now for destruction of company assets, and have the maintenance guys throw him in the dumpster.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Phoebe has just been trough a very traumatic experience and I’m going to console her. You know, you really should try and be a little more sensitive to people at times like this.”
[Mr I]
“You’re not going to believe this,” I says to LOBO. “Cobe got this wild hair up his tail about doing a nude pictorial of Phoebe.”
“No!” says LOBO.
“Yeah. We got the whole thing on the security cams. Watch this.”
It’s grainy, and the fresh snow is rather blinding on the monitor. At 7:45 am (as reflected in the corner of the screen), Phoebe pulls into the parking facility just in time for work. Even in her heeled boots, the tall, leggy beauty is graceful in ankle-deep snow.
Greeting her at the entrance is Cobe.
I fast forward a little. “This is pretty dull for a few minutes here. ‘Hi, nice to see you this morning’ blah blah. But then at precisely 7:51, here it goes--”
Whatever happened really isn’t clear. There is a slight twitch, maybe a flinch of Phoebe’s hip, and she continues on into the building, tossing something dark and round over her shoulder that flops shapelessly into the snow. Even in the slowest-motion the security cam provided, whatever happened seems to happen between frames.
Cobe remains standing motionless, a strange look crossing over his face.
“Now watch this,” I say, pointing to Cobe's chest with my pen.
A small dark circle appears on his parka, and Cobe slumps forward slightly. The white snow in front of him is now splattered in dark, thick fluid.
At 7:52, Cobe’s lifeless body finally crumples to the ground.
“The police are on the way, and our insurance companies are besides themselves,” I say.
“Why?” asks LOBO. “He asked Phoebe to do a nude pictorial. I would say that this is classified as an attempted suicide. And on the off-chance he survives, we can simply have him fired for attempted murder of himself.”
“Attempted nothing,” I say. “According to our records, Cobe opted for an HMO.”
“Well, why are we wasting time with an ambulance then? I say we 'can' him right now for destruction of company assets, and have the maintenance guys throw him in the dumpster.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Phoebe has just been trough a very traumatic experience and I’m going to console her. You know, you really should try and be a little more sensitive to people at times like this.”
Wednesday
Angry Management
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Cobe,” I says. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you sir,” says the hideous little man. “I’m up for review this week. I work so much, I haven’t slept or bathed since April.”
“How very efficient,” I reply ponderously. “Do you think you’ll get that Chief Negotiator position?”
“Excuse me sir?”
“You didn’t know? I thought everybody knew.” Here comes the lying part. “Ethan has been considering you for that position for a long time now.”
I am the Rembrandt of lying.
With enough time, I could convince you George Bush was secretly a celebrated part-time accountant for MENSA.
"Really?"
“Yeah,” I says excitely. “Cobe, you’re absolutely gruesome.”
Oops.
“Thank you sir.”
“--I mean a shoe-in”, I stammer. “Oh, fuck it. There. I said it. Cobe, you’re one revolting-looking human being. I mean like H. P. Lovecraft ugly."
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” Cobe replies. “But you were saying about the job … ?”
“Oh yeah. That. I would say your chances are about 50-50 at this point.” I pause for drama, stretching coolly. Exhaling, “... Too bad you couldn’t, I don’t know, impress Ethan with something really big between now and that review.”
“I work 106 hours a week with no breaks.”
“Negotiating?”
“No.”
I shake my head. “See, that’s what I mean. And the timing’s bad too. There’s really only one big outstanding Predator Press negotiation pending right now.” Thinking quickly I add, “--being that it’s the slow season for negotiations and all.”
“What negotiation is that?” asks Cobe with keen, predictable, and butt-ugly interest.
“We want Phobe to pose nude on PredatorPress.com.”
“But wouldn’t Sapphire be a—?“
“Saphire’s a stripper, you fuckin freakshow-destined yet otherwise model employee. Everybody’s already seen Sapphire’s action. Don’t you remember that post when she made us put up naked pictures of her?” I tap my forehead, trying to remember, “It’s in the archives," I flounder. "It’s that one post with all the cursing. According to the counter, nobody fucking went.”
“According to the counter, nobody goes to any of PredatorPress.com--”
“Being a ‘Mr. Smarty Guy’ and tripping me up with the facts isn’t going to help your situation, you revolting, multi-celled organism.”
“I’m sorry sir.”
“Noted,” I says, continuing ...
[LOBO]
“Cobe,” I says. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you sir,” says the hideous little man. “I’m up for review this week. I work so much, I haven’t slept or bathed since April.”
“How very efficient,” I reply ponderously. “Do you think you’ll get that Chief Negotiator position?”
“Excuse me sir?”
“You didn’t know? I thought everybody knew.” Here comes the lying part. “Ethan has been considering you for that position for a long time now.”
I am the Rembrandt of lying.
With enough time, I could convince you George Bush was secretly a celebrated part-time accountant for MENSA.
"Really?"
“Yeah,” I says excitely. “Cobe, you’re absolutely gruesome.”
Oops.
“Thank you sir.”
“--I mean a shoe-in”, I stammer. “Oh, fuck it. There. I said it. Cobe, you’re one revolting-looking human being. I mean like H. P. Lovecraft ugly."
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” Cobe replies. “But you were saying about the job … ?”
“Oh yeah. That. I would say your chances are about 50-50 at this point.” I pause for drama, stretching coolly. Exhaling, “... Too bad you couldn’t, I don’t know, impress Ethan with something really big between now and that review.”
“I work 106 hours a week with no breaks.”
“Negotiating?”
“No.”
I shake my head. “See, that’s what I mean. And the timing’s bad too. There’s really only one big outstanding Predator Press negotiation pending right now.” Thinking quickly I add, “--being that it’s the slow season for negotiations and all.”
“What negotiation is that?” asks Cobe with keen, predictable, and butt-ugly interest.
“We want Phobe to pose nude on PredatorPress.com.”
“But wouldn’t Sapphire be a—?“
“Saphire’s a stripper, you fuckin freakshow-destined yet otherwise model employee. Everybody’s already seen Sapphire’s action. Don’t you remember that post when she made us put up naked pictures of her?” I tap my forehead, trying to remember, “It’s in the archives," I flounder. "It’s that one post with all the cursing. According to the counter, nobody fucking went.”
“According to the counter, nobody goes to any of PredatorPress.com--”
“Being a ‘Mr. Smarty Guy’ and tripping me up with the facts isn’t going to help your situation, you revolting, multi-celled organism.”
“I’m sorry sir.”
“Noted,” I says, continuing ...
Saturday
Predator Press Interviews: Kevin Federline
Predator Press
I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …
LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?
Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.
LOBO: Any kids?
Kevin Federline: Yes.
LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.
Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?
LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.
Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.
LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.
Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.
LOBO: Is she dating yet?
Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.
LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.
Kevin Federline: I can imagine.
LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?
Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.
LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?
Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--
LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--
Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.
LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--
Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?
LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?
I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …
LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?
Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.
LOBO: Any kids?
Kevin Federline: Yes.
LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.
Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?
LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.
Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.
LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.
Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.
LOBO: Is she dating yet?
Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.
LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.
Kevin Federline: I can imagine.
LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?
Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.
LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?
Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--
LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--
Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.
LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--
Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?
LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?
Lighten Up
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
Wednesday
GRACELAND
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
YESTERDAY
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
***
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
***
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
Thou Shalt Not Bitch
Predator Press
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
Monday
Borne Again
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
***
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
Saturday
AGNES
Predator Press
[LOBO]
ay Bultema wasn't a particularly handsome guy, but he was interesting looking. Something about him, his demeanor, something, drew your attention.
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
***
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
[LOBO]
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
Thursday
Strictly Carnivore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
***
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
Wednesday
WTF
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, Joshua slipped from my clutches despite my dazzling display of mathematical prowess.
Of course I'm distressed; I definitely had that little shit deeply pegged as one of them commie pinko metric-system algebra lovers, just seething with potential; I figured that kid'd toss over his own mother for a Tickle Me Elmo.
And now, on top of it all, it turns out that this whole "getting an audit" is a bad thing.
I blame Mr Insanity.
This week sucks already.
[LOBO]
Well, Joshua slipped from my clutches despite my dazzling display of mathematical prowess.
Of course I'm distressed; I definitely had that little shit deeply pegged as one of them commie pinko metric-system algebra lovers, just seething with potential; I figured that kid'd toss over his own mother for a Tickle Me Elmo.
And now, on top of it all, it turns out that this whole "getting an audit" is a bad thing.
I blame Mr Insanity.
This week sucks already.
Monday
Synergy
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
The Auditors are here.
"Chop, chop!" I says to Phoebe. "I need those NAFTA projections finalized in twenty minutes."
"We need a cure for cancer this very second," she replies, blowing off her nails.
"Wow!" says LOBO, slamming the door behind him. "Who is that new hot chick meeting with Cobe? Is she a temp?" He grabs his heart, looking to the sky, "Solomente Tu Este, Me Amore. Oh, those beautiful blue eyes ... "
"She's a Hawley Enterprises Auditor," I says.
"Are we getting audited?" LOBO asks excitedly.
"No," I reply. "The Predator Press Printshop is. They ran up 4.6 billion dollars last year for blog ink."
"But we're not getting audited?" LOBO frowns.
"No."
"What would we need to do to have a long, eviscerating audit, probing every inch of the entire editing staff?" he asks.
"We would have had to had questionable expenses last year," I offer. "But we came in under budget projections, and turned a profit of 2.6-"
Where's the document shredder?" LOBO asks, dialing.
"We don't have a document shredder," I reply helplessly.
"Hello, Cobe?" he says into the phone.
pause
"You're breaking up real bad. Something about 'you're with an auditor?'"
another pause
"Can't understand a word," says LOBO. "This phone is crap. Put me on speakerphone."
"LOBO," says Cobe. "We're very busy."
LOBO grins at me as he pours gasoline all over the room. Then, into the phone he says clearly, "Cobe, what exactly are we supposed to do with all these bags of cash?"
[Mr. I]
The Auditors are here.
"Chop, chop!" I says to Phoebe. "I need those NAFTA projections finalized in twenty minutes."
"We need a cure for cancer this very second," she replies, blowing off her nails.
"Wow!" says LOBO, slamming the door behind him. "Who is that new hot chick meeting with Cobe? Is she a temp?" He grabs his heart, looking to the sky, "Solomente Tu Este, Me Amore. Oh, those beautiful blue eyes ... "
"She's a Hawley Enterprises Auditor," I says.
"Are we getting audited?" LOBO asks excitedly.
"No," I reply. "The Predator Press Printshop is. They ran up 4.6 billion dollars last year for blog ink."
"But we're not getting audited?" LOBO frowns.
"No."
"What would we need to do to have a long, eviscerating audit, probing every inch of the entire editing staff?" he asks.
"We would have had to had questionable expenses last year," I offer. "But we came in under budget projections, and turned a profit of 2.6-"
Where's the document shredder?" LOBO asks, dialing.
"We don't have a document shredder," I reply helplessly.
"Hello, Cobe?" he says into the phone.
pause
"You're breaking up real bad. Something about 'you're with an auditor?'"
another pause
"Can't understand a word," says LOBO. "This phone is crap. Put me on speakerphone."
"LOBO," says Cobe. "We're very busy."
LOBO grins at me as he pours gasoline all over the room. Then, into the phone he says clearly, "Cobe, what exactly are we supposed to do with all these bags of cash?"
Wednesday
TREASON
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright," I says to the kid. "How much homework do you have to do every day?"
Joshua pauses for a second, confused.
He holds up ten stubby little fingers.
"Okay," I acknowledge. "About an hour. You get on your bus at like 7:20 every morning, and leave on one at 3:10. And get home at, like, 3:25. Am I correct?"
Joshua squirms.
"Well buddy, that's about (x3)(4)=(X-6) more than the average adult commits to their careers, and then bitches about how they have no time." I walk behind Joshua, and put my arm over his shoulder. "But I've got good news too. I'm making you President of Student Council. And your first act as President will be to announce that school is done at noon, and that homework is illegal under penalty of death. Would you like that? All you and your motivated constituents have to do is swear a dark allegiance to me. No big deal."
"I like to color!" he giggles shyly.
"This isn't supposed to be a negotiation, you little shit ... "
[LOBO]
"Alright," I says to the kid. "How much homework do you have to do every day?"
Joshua pauses for a second, confused.
He holds up ten stubby little fingers.
"Okay," I acknowledge. "About an hour. You get on your bus at like 7:20 every morning, and leave on one at 3:10. And get home at, like, 3:25. Am I correct?"
Joshua squirms.
"Well buddy, that's about (x3)(4)=(X-6) more than the average adult commits to their careers, and then bitches about how they have no time." I walk behind Joshua, and put my arm over his shoulder. "But I've got good news too. I'm making you President of Student Council. And your first act as President will be to announce that school is done at noon, and that homework is illegal under penalty of death. Would you like that? All you and your motivated constituents have to do is swear a dark allegiance to me. No big deal."
"I like to color!" he giggles shyly.
"This isn't supposed to be a negotiation, you little shit ... "
Re-Tardy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was leafing through the paper --feigning interest in Rumsfeld's resignation so I didn't have to actually talk to anybody-when I found out I was elected District 57's Superintendent of Schools.
I don't even know where District 57 is, and I'm apparently late for work.
***
I burst into the Principal's office pretending to have an agenda and know what I'm doing, and being really pissed off about it. And this bitch dressed like a penguin yanks the cigarette out of my mouth!
"There's no smoking in here," the wrinkly old bat growls, squishing my non-generic and expensive smoldering joy under her thick, flat arches.
I point to the nearest nine year old, and he flips me a Kool.
"Bullshit," I says, lighting up.
[LOBO]
I was leafing through the paper --feigning interest in Rumsfeld's resignation so I didn't have to actually talk to anybody-when I found out I was elected District 57's Superintendent of Schools.
I don't even know where District 57 is, and I'm apparently late for work.
I burst into the Principal's office pretending to have an agenda and know what I'm doing, and being really pissed off about it. And this bitch dressed like a penguin yanks the cigarette out of my mouth!
"There's no smoking in here," the wrinkly old bat growls, squishing my non-generic and expensive smoldering joy under her thick, flat arches.
I point to the nearest nine year old, and he flips me a Kool.
"Bullshit," I says, lighting up.
Tuesday
Revolution
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Election Day.
Yippee.
All very boring; voting between only two candidates that have been financed and feted for our Constitutional Right to have two candidates that have been financed and feted.
It doesn’t particularly excite me.
But what if the Village Idiot got voted in? Oh that’s too funny …
I’m writing in “LOBO” for everything … ! haha
… Bet nobody has ever thought of this gag before …
[Mr. I]
Election Day.
Yippee.
All very boring; voting between only two candidates that have been financed and feted for our Constitutional Right to have two candidates that have been financed and feted.
It doesn’t particularly excite me.
But what if the Village Idiot got voted in? Oh that’s too funny …
I’m writing in “LOBO” for everything … ! haha
… Bet nobody has ever thought of this gag before …
Fuck Democracy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This whole election is a sham.
I spent 87 bucks on a Presidential Campaign, and I wasn't even on the fucking ballot.
Still, I voted. I voted against all those jerks that left messages on my answering machine.
Sometimes this electoral strategy forced me to vote for a Democrat, which still feels strange. I spent years as an Anarchist, which ultimately, is as "Conservative" as you can get if you think about it: no rule of law, just remains of dissenters.
Who wants to deal with all those bodies? I'm far too lazy to be a decent Anarchist.
On everything else, I wrote "LOBO" as a write-in.
God, that's so funny. I'll bet nobody's ever done that before ...
[LOBO]
This whole election is a sham.
I spent 87 bucks on a Presidential Campaign, and I wasn't even on the fucking ballot.
Still, I voted. I voted against all those jerks that left messages on my answering machine.
Sometimes this electoral strategy forced me to vote for a Democrat, which still feels strange. I spent years as an Anarchist, which ultimately, is as "Conservative" as you can get if you think about it: no rule of law, just remains of dissenters.
Who wants to deal with all those bodies? I'm far too lazy to be a decent Anarchist.
On everything else, I wrote "LOBO" as a write-in.
God, that's so funny. I'll bet nobody's ever done that before ...
Good Sport
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well Jesus, that was pretty darn funny. Nice touch with the fake newspaper!!
Haha, ya got me.
But I'm still tellin your Dad.
Good luck tryin' ta heal cripples this week ...
[LOBO]
Well Jesus, that was pretty darn funny. Nice touch with the fake newspaper!!
Haha, ya got me.
But I'm still tellin your Dad.
Good luck tryin' ta heal cripples this week ...
Sunday
Amazing Football Prediction From Jesus!!!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As usual, Jesus picks one hell of a day to come down and tell me to not take my Lithium and bet everything I own on a sports event ... you would think he would know by now to call first. I was sitting at home kicking ass on Grand Theft Auto, and here comes the Son of God barging in again, wrecking up my lazy Sunday (Fourth Commandment, aka God's Will, I might add) with another stupid "prophecy".
Well, here it is:
THE BEARS ARE UNSTOPPABLE.
COWER, PUNY FLORIDIANS, AS YOUR PUNY FOOTBALL
TEAM IS CRUSHED IN THE WAKE OF THE BEARS
JUGGERNAUT 104-0, AND SENT HOME TO THE PUNY
EVERGLADES IN SHAMEFUL, PUNY DISGRACE.
JESUS HATES FLORIDA
(How is the weather down there?)
[LOBO]
As usual, Jesus picks one hell of a day to come down and tell me to not take my Lithium and bet everything I own on a sports event ... you would think he would know by now to call first. I was sitting at home kicking ass on Grand Theft Auto, and here comes the Son of God barging in again, wrecking up my lazy Sunday (Fourth Commandment, aka God's Will, I might add) with another stupid "prophecy".
Well, here it is:
COWER, PUNY FLORIDIANS, AS YOUR PUNY FOOTBALL
TEAM IS CRUSHED IN THE WAKE OF THE BEARS
JUGGERNAUT 104-0, AND SENT HOME TO THE PUNY
EVERGLADES IN SHAMEFUL, PUNY DISGRACE.
JESUS HATES FLORIDA
(How is the weather down there?)
Saturday
The Joy of Travel
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
I am traveling alone
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
[LOBO]
I like to travel.
Well, except for the packing part. And the act of physically going from point to point. And the sleeping in strange places, on things who knows what has happened on. And the forgetting stuff, and having to use available stuff recently used by puss-oozing, sneezy people who --currently nowhere to be found-- left yet another layer of crawling and voracious creepy organisms to intermingle with the already-dominant seething biological cesspool of thousands of other forgetful travelers: a veritable greenhouse of self-perpetuating aggressive microscopic deadly and carnivorous forgetful and stupid DNA, feasting on your flesh and brains and making you itchy until you buy an irresponsible amount of scratch-off lottery tickets. And then missing the stuff that was too big or otherwise impractical to bring. And the timetables and schedules. And the geographic disorientation, and sleep depravation. And being away from your friends, surrounded by shifty-looking, mistrustful strangers with big mutton chop sideburns and a top hat, twirling their handlebar mustaches. And the unpacking.
Aside from all that, I love to travel.
The first time I ever flew, Ethan pinned a note to my sweater that said:
for the first time.
Please be nice to me.
He arranged to get me a tour of the cockpit, as long as I promised not to touch anything.
The stewardesses brought me airplane pins and coloring books, and fawned and fussed over me ('cept I'm not supposed to call them "stewardesses" anymore for some reason, so now I call them "those hot bitches that bring me peanuts"). Still, at twenty-six, I was completely jazzed about air travel; they had made quite an impression.
See, airline companies seemed to recognize the value of getting an impressionable youth enthusiastic about flying, in hopes of gaining a lifelong customer.
Now the only company that does that is Phillip Morris.
God bless Big Tobacco.
[*sigh*]
Thursday
You People Are Being Jerks
Predator Press
[LOBO]
You people are really being tough on Babs; she is the light of my life ... my oxygen. One day I hope to bear her children.
So lay off.
Why, just yesterday she made one of my lifelong dreams come true: she bought me a basketball court-sized recording studio, and hired those guys from Metallica to help me record my album.
And when they showed up for the sound check, I made those jerks play dodgeball for six hours.
[LOBO]
You people are really being tough on Babs; she is the light of my life ... my oxygen. One day I hope to bear her children.
So lay off.
Why, just yesterday she made one of my lifelong dreams come true: she bought me a basketball court-sized recording studio, and hired those guys from Metallica to help me record my album.
And when they showed up for the sound check, I made those jerks play dodgeball for six hours.
When Squirrels Attack
Predator Press
[COBE]
LOBO's insured, certified, signature only, earliest-possible delivery Fed-Ex lie unopened under my ashtray, sticky from soaking up Santa's blood.
Santa had certainly seen better days.
The years of steroid abuse alone would have been difficult for to me to correct. But Santa had two compound fractures that would never heal properly, and one was riddled with gangrene. Several digits and one eye had been lost to carrion-scavenging animals. Mad in his agony, Kringle frothed and spat, straining against the table restraints.
I take a shot of Wild Turkey, and then pour some on his dry lips. "The shotgun blast, it turned out, was the least of the problems, my old friend," I explained through the surgical mask as I resumed pulling the dark stitches through his thick, muscular neck. "You were grazed for the most part. You're a very lucky man. Sapphire has rarely been known to miss before."
"Ho ho ho," Santa wheezed weakly through broken, bloodied teeth.
And then he fell asleep.
[COBE]
LOBO's insured, certified, signature only, earliest-possible delivery Fed-Ex lie unopened under my ashtray, sticky from soaking up Santa's blood.
Santa had certainly seen better days.
The years of steroid abuse alone would have been difficult for to me to correct. But Santa had two compound fractures that would never heal properly, and one was riddled with gangrene. Several digits and one eye had been lost to carrion-scavenging animals. Mad in his agony, Kringle frothed and spat, straining against the table restraints.
I take a shot of Wild Turkey, and then pour some on his dry lips. "The shotgun blast, it turned out, was the least of the problems, my old friend," I explained through the surgical mask as I resumed pulling the dark stitches through his thick, muscular neck. "You were grazed for the most part. You're a very lucky man. Sapphire has rarely been known to miss before."
"Ho ho ho," Santa wheezed weakly through broken, bloodied teeth.
And then he fell asleep.
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