Flea Flicker
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
LOBO is strangely absent on this fine day.
For a guy who is virtually unemployed, sleeps till 10 in the morning, et cetera, he sure doesn't have very much time for anything it seems; under Ethan’s instruction, I went to his house … but he didn't answer the door. On his doorknob was a "Sorry We Missed You" note from a plumbing company, and tiny handwritten scrawl at the bottom said something angry about a quarter.
His absence is doubly odd and distressing in that this is the day Predator Press debuts our new game “Killball” on a variety of obscure cable channels. Of the three of us as I recall, LOBO was the most excited; this marked his first time on television he didn't have to eat bugs or marry a millionaire.
Nonetheless, without our tie-breaking official, we continued flying the "missing man" formation. Assembled below us, suited up and ready to play, are all the members of the National Killball League: Max, Brighta and Vetter.
Currently, it’s a very small league.
“Now how do we play again?” Max yells up to Ethan.
“C’mon guys,” yells Ethan. Exasperated, he lowers his rifle. “It couldn’t be simpler! All you have to do is get across the mined playing field by leaping or swinging across all eight of the flaming, acid-filled pits of starving robot alligators in order to intercept the 'Skimmer'. The job of the defense is to keep the Skimmer,” Ethan points at a nervous-looking Vetter who is strapped into a giant slingshot-like device, “from breaking the plane of the End Zone, also referred to as that brick wall over there. If he breaks that plane, that will incur a penalty against the other team.”
“How do we score?”
“Score?”
Suddenly, Ethan’s cell rings.
“Really?” he says into the phone. “On Christmas? Wow that’s terrible. Okay.” He hangs up, and tugs my sleeve.
“Cobe called off. Says his house burned down.”
“Called off?” I says. “Wow. He is so fired.”
Ethan blows the whistle. "Play ball!" he yells.
"What ball?" yells Brighta.
I watch Ethan rub his temples. "Well, don't worry about Cobe, sir. What kind of an asshole works on Christmas anyway?"
[Mr Insanity]
LOBO is strangely absent on this fine day.
For a guy who is virtually unemployed, sleeps till 10 in the morning, et cetera, he sure doesn't have very much time for anything it seems; under Ethan’s instruction, I went to his house … but he didn't answer the door. On his doorknob was a "Sorry We Missed You" note from a plumbing company, and tiny handwritten scrawl at the bottom said something angry about a quarter.
His absence is doubly odd and distressing in that this is the day Predator Press debuts our new game “Killball” on a variety of obscure cable channels. Of the three of us as I recall, LOBO was the most excited; this marked his first time on television he didn't have to eat bugs or marry a millionaire.
Nonetheless, without our tie-breaking official, we continued flying the "missing man" formation. Assembled below us, suited up and ready to play, are all the members of the National Killball League: Max, Brighta and Vetter.
Currently, it’s a very small league.
“Now how do we play again?” Max yells up to Ethan.
“C’mon guys,” yells Ethan. Exasperated, he lowers his rifle. “It couldn’t be simpler! All you have to do is get across the mined playing field by leaping or swinging across all eight of the flaming, acid-filled pits of starving robot alligators in order to intercept the 'Skimmer'. The job of the defense is to keep the Skimmer,” Ethan points at a nervous-looking Vetter who is strapped into a giant slingshot-like device, “from breaking the plane of the End Zone, also referred to as that brick wall over there. If he breaks that plane, that will incur a penalty against the other team.”
“How do we score?”
“Score?”
Suddenly, Ethan’s cell rings.
“Really?” he says into the phone. “On Christmas? Wow that’s terrible. Okay.” He hangs up, and tugs my sleeve.
“Cobe called off. Says his house burned down.”
“Called off?” I says. “Wow. He is so fired.”
Ethan blows the whistle. "Play ball!" he yells.
"What ball?" yells Brighta.
I watch Ethan rub his temples. "Well, don't worry about Cobe, sir. What kind of an asshole works on Christmas anyway?"
Comments