Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan and I, smoking cigars, watch 'the dailies' with great interest.
"Rumsfeld is killing Osama?" he asks. "I thought Cheney killed Osama about twenty minutes ago."
"No, that was Saddam. Remember the mustache?"
"No, that was Chemical Ali."
"No, Chemical Ali was killed by Ann Coulter."
"I'm confused."
"Remember, when Cheney and Limbaugh had to hook south at the Anthrax factory? Rush, the team medic, told her he had something she could take that would let her take six or seven more direct mortar hits. Then Chemical Ali attacks them, and Ann rips out all eight of his arms and pushes him over the cliff?" I sigh. "I agree. This edit seems a little disjointed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Cobe play all the bad guys after all."
"Cobe just doesn't seem to have any acting range whatsoever," Ethan observes.
"Vince!" I yell up at the projection booth. "Play the opening sequence." I settle back in. "Still Ethan, you're gonna love this."
Monday
Sunday
Chiefly Speaking
Predator Press
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
[LOBO]
George Bush Junior, clutching a fire hydrant, was begging. "Please don't do this anymore. I'll do anything!"
"George," says the guy in the Nixon mask. "Join me, and together we shall rule the galaxy."
"Shit, I'd join you if you just took me to Dennys!"
"You have no idea the power of the Dark Side."
"Look, asshole. I already said I would join you." Bush gets up, walks to the mysterious stranger's car, climbs in the passenger side and slams the door. Rolling down the electric window, he yells, "This is the maximum level of joining you."
"George," says the masked stranger. "I am your father."
Suddenly, the Nixon mask comes off, and it's George Bush Senior!
"Oh yeah Dad," says George Junior tiredly from the car. "Like that bit didn't get old the first time you did it. What was I, eight then? Huh Dad? I'm thirty-five now. I'm in college fer Chrissake. Plus I think I'm a goddamn member of Congress or something like that."
Sulkily, George Bush senior drops the mask, and shuffles for the car.
"Chop chop, there pops," says Bush Junior. "I'm trying to decide between the AARP and the military defense fund even as we speak."
George Senior shuts the door, and puts his seat belt on.
"I'm gonna have twelve Happy Burgers and fifty milkshakes!" Cries Bush Junior. "Yeah!"
"Look," mumbles Bush Senior, adjusting the bulletproof mirror. "Just don't make a scene if some kid's already done the maze on the menu again. They have thousands of those in back. We just have to ask a waitress."
"Okay Dad," Says George Junior. "But can you make this car bounce in the air like those Mexican cars do?"
Bush Senior scowls and starts the car.
"Phooey,” says George Junior, folding his arms. “I don't know what the point is of being President is if you can't have a bouncy car."
Let Freedom Scream
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
[LOBO]
"Alright Newt," I says. "Lets go over this scene once more."
"I'm standing right here," says Newt. "I don't think you need the megaphone."
"Look Newt," I says frustrated. "This ain't Capitol Hill. I handle all the censorship around here. Now in this scene, you jump off of the fourth story, somersault gracefully to the ground by virtue of this crane and harness, and kick the crap out of six insurgents."
Newt pulls on the harness nervously. "Are you sure this thing is safe?"
"It's all physics, baby," I says walking back to my chair. "As long as you're exactly 180 pounds like it says on your driver's license, you're as safe as if in your mother's arms. Now the second you here the 'All Clear' safety bell, jump."
A bell rang, and Newt jumped. The crane buckled, and what followed was a scene of catastrophic mechanical failure.
The bell rang again.
Exasperated, I answered my cell phone.
"Hello? Oh hi Mom. Listen I can't talk right now. I'm shooting a movie."
Somewhere below, I could hear Newt groaning.
The 'All Clear' safety bell rang.
"Cut!," I yell. "Print it. That was fantastic! Newt, nice touch with that look of terror. It looked absolutely believable."
"Uhhnn," he says.
"Alright everyone," I says into the megaphone. "We have 30 more scenes to shoot today. Is the Limbaugh Piranha Cannon ready?"
"We're all set sir," says a wincing aide two feet away. "But Rush is complaining that there aren't any piranhas in Iraq."
"Fucking actors," I breathe. "Is he at least in his suit basted with goldfish flakes and pork chops?"
"Yes."
"Well, just push him in the ammo pool and shoot that. I suspect the piranhas aren't such sticklers for detail."
Saturday
The Best Laid Mice of Plans and Men
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
[LOBO]
"The idea," says Ethan touring me through the studio, "is simply that if the media is responsible for the state of current affairs-"
We enter a room where Donald Rumsfeld, shirtless with an M-60 and bandoliers, is shooting six Al Qaeda guys while rifle-butting another and rescuing a puppy.
"-that we can end the end the war the same way," Ethan finishes.
Donald 'tucks and rolls' into an adjacent set, where he delivers an Iraqi baby waving a tiny American flag, all the while ducking gunfire and lobbing potent hand grenades.
"Okay," I says. "But I don't see where I come in."
"LOBO," sighs Ethan. "I want you to film Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld getting pissed off and flying to Iraq, and ending the war once and for all. Personally."
"I like the name 'Gen. David H. Petraeus' too. It sounds kinda Latin. Biblical. Greek even. 'Petraeus' almost sounds Roman, and even after all these centuries the Romans are still kicking ass. Shit, you can't make a movie sequel anymore if it doesn't have an 'V' or an 'X' or a vowel in it somewhere. What the hell would Sylvester Stallone have called his movies then?"
"Exactly."
"Okay," I says as Rumsfeld climbs into a convenient helicopter, and starts napalming 6 guys that look like Osama. "But we're going to have to get Rumsfeld a stunt chest; his pasty tits just flopping around like that might give us a PG 17 rating." I scratch my chin. "Plus it's hell on the sound guys; they say everything sounds like two fat people fucking. Can we get a prosthetic chest? Or maybe 'CGI' something in?"
"That's why you're here," says Ethan smiling. "I want you to film victory."
Australia
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
[LOBO]
"I left you guys," says Ethan tersely, "on a teambuilding exercise. For two weeks. And you have burned my entire empire to the ground."
"There's always the rubble," I says.
"You burned the rubble down!"
"Well, you can't say I'm not thorough."
"Well, I really appreciate it," says Ethan. "Now Babs doesn't get shit."
"So you're okay with having lost $470,005,058.05 as long as Babs didn't get anything?"
"Oh yeah."
"So we're cool?"
"Shit, as soon as I get some money, I'm giving you a raise!"
"Well," I says. "It had better be substantial. You have no idea how traumatizing this has all been."
"We got a military contract," says Ethan. "$150,000,000,000. The first year."
"Ethan, I don't think I'm up for pissing off other countries anymore. Do you know it's a Class X felony for a woman to have sex with me in Australia now?"
"I told you Australia existed."
"I know. And now I want to have sex there in the worst way!"
"The last thing you need right now is another woman."
"Yeah," I concur, sighing. "Another vagina to feed."
"I need you, and your amazing media prowess on this project."
"Will there be cake?" I'm clapping my hands. "I love cake!"
White Power
[LOBO]
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
Well, being in jail is by no means fun; nonetheless, when I found out I was in jail with Richard Gere, I was thrilled.
Richard Gere, star of such brutal fight scenes such as the ones in 'An Officer and a Gentleman' and 'Pretty Woman', was right the fuck here sharing a holding cell with me!
I immediately start talking trash.
Dice, Tic Tock, and Shiv weren’t too impressed at first, but when I told ‘em all they was 'so ugly they hadda fake orgasms while masturbating', they had a huddle.
Dice: “Yo man, these are either the dumbest white men on Earth, or maybe they’re just crazy.”
Tic Tock: “Yeah, dude just said Tom Wopat was the Antichrist. Who the fuck is Tom Wopat?”
Shiv: “Wasn’t that one cracker that dude in Pretty Woman?”
“That’s right!” I exclaim. “And if I give the word, Richard will pull your tongues through your keysters!” I stare at them crazily.
“What you dogs doin time for?” says Tic Tock.
“Tell ‘im Richard!” I says, all twitchy-like.
“I was at Christmas Mass and this guy and a hooker showed up. During the footage, I was holding hands with my wife.” Richard wipes away a tear. “They got the whole thing on film.”
“You know Richard,” I says facing a 6’6” tall angry guy twice my width, “I was hoping --as an artist—you could do better than that.”
“Better than getting arrested for the proliferation of phony ‘Fat Burning' Twinkies?”
Dice: “These niggas are fucked up.”
Tic Tock: “Just be cool.”
Shiv: “I’m tellin you, that cat was in Armageddon or something.”
Suddenly, a voice calls, “LOBO, you’ve made bail. Please exit to your left.”
“Well wow,” I says, grabbing Richard’s hand and shaking it heartily. “Good luck my friend.” I pause. "Can I have your autograph?"
Thursday
Viscosity
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
“You know,” I says, pushing my plate away. “I was a little disappointed with the fettuccini.”
“Really,” says Sapphire. “Am I supposed to think you are classy because you are pointing out flaws at something you invited me to?” she giggles. “I suppose you cook?”
“I’ll cut you a deal,” I says. “I’ll handle the macaroni and cheese. No matter what you decide to make, I’m doing the mac and cheese.”
“Oh thank God,” Sapphire laughs.
“Until we get married,” I add. “When we get married, you’ll be pretty fucked as far as pasta is concerned.”
"So then we'll eat, what, leaves and berries?"
"If you're lucky," I says frowning. "Look, I know your 'affiliation' with LOBO--"
"Well, it's funny that you mention that," she says. "Because LOBO needs to post Bail."
[Mr Insanity]
“You know,” I says, pushing my plate away. “I was a little disappointed with the fettuccini.”
“Really,” says Sapphire. “Am I supposed to think you are classy because you are pointing out flaws at something you invited me to?” she giggles. “I suppose you cook?”
“I’ll cut you a deal,” I says. “I’ll handle the macaroni and cheese. No matter what you decide to make, I’m doing the mac and cheese.”
“Oh thank God,” Sapphire laughs.
“Until we get married,” I add. “When we get married, you’ll be pretty fucked as far as pasta is concerned.”
"So then we'll eat, what, leaves and berries?"
"If you're lucky," I says frowning. "Look, I know your 'affiliation' with LOBO--"
"Well, it's funny that you mention that," she says. "Because LOBO needs to post Bail."
Tuesday
Perfectly Legal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I'm serious," I says. "I've got his contract right here!"
1) Don't be a Dick = 50%
Gilmore's Score: -50%
2) Never Say 'LOBO is Too Busy' for Free Meals = 21%
Gilmore's Score: 21%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
3) No Fat Chicks = 20%
Gilmore's Score: 20%
4) Never Kill Ethan = 9%
Gilmore's Score: -9%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
Net Total = Fuck Gilmore.
"It's all perfectly legal," I insist.
[LOBO]
"I'm serious," I says. "I've got his contract right here!"
1) Don't be a Dick = 50%
Gilmore's Score: -50%
2) Never Say 'LOBO is Too Busy' for Free Meals = 21%
Gilmore's Score: 21%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
3) No Fat Chicks = 20%
Gilmore's Score: 20%
4) Never Kill Ethan = 9%
Gilmore's Score: -9%, + 6% bonus for timeliness
Net Total = Fuck Gilmore.
Saturday
Scar Tissue
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
“Look,” says Gilmore, stuffing the bloody tissue against his nose. “I did the right thing. If, in fact, Babs has anything to do with this, somebody should have been ‘engaged’ in what is going on.”
“How do we know your loyalty isn’t with her?” says Sapphire.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the fight -I don't know- but the next thing out of my mouth was, “What the fuck do you know about loyalty?”
Sapphire's eyes flashed dangerously. “Excuse me?” she blinked.
“What was that disappearing act over Winter Break all about? I thought we were getting pretty tight. Then boom. You didn’t even send me a Christmas Card.”
“You took a hooker to Christmas Mass from what I heard.”
“Don't blame me if there's no 'Saving' her."
[Mr Insanity]
“Look,” says Gilmore, stuffing the bloody tissue against his nose. “I did the right thing. If, in fact, Babs has anything to do with this, somebody should have been ‘engaged’ in what is going on.”
“How do we know your loyalty isn’t with her?” says Sapphire.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the fight -I don't know- but the next thing out of my mouth was, “What the fuck do you know about loyalty?”
Sapphire's eyes flashed dangerously. “Excuse me?” she blinked.
“What was that disappearing act over Winter Break all about? I thought we were getting pretty tight. Then boom. You didn’t even send me a Christmas Card.”
“You took a hooker to Christmas Mass from what I heard.”
“Don't blame me if there's no 'Saving' her."
Friday
Black Flag
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Ethan disappearing isn’t really always that unusual; he’ll just up and go on a vacation or a business trip often without even packing.
But this is the first time he’s gone ten days without contacting anyone.
Making things worse is the glaring absence of Cobe; while that lazy fuck is off vacationing or whatever in the arctic, everything was beginning to fall apart without Ethan at the helm.
The sense of deterioration in the office was obvious and virtually palpable. Supplies were being ordered incorrectly –if in fact ordered at all. Bills were going unpaid. Deadlines were being missed. Things were so bad, when Babs asked me if I run the warehouse for a few days, I jumped at the chance.
The truth is I’m somewhat of a shipping and receiving prodigy. With a crew of 46 hard-scrabble industrial types, on a typical day we would receive about 26 semi trailers with materials and generally ship out about the same amount.
Now, under my radiant guidance, loads are brought into the north side of the building, processed, disseminated, recombined, and shipped out on trucks waiting on the south side just as usual. But now those trucks drive immediately back around to the north side, and the process is repeated.
But within only a few days, I have them doing triple the production. Hell, now I’m considering not letting the trucks stop here in the first place … just have the long line of semis circling the building clockwise. If they approve my on-site diesel refueling station, we’re talking nothing but round-the-clock efficiency.
***
Immediately after shuffling up the papers in Jimmy Orlando’s vacant office, I got the call instructing me –and all Predator Press executives—to meet at the banquet hall. My suspicions that it was a surprise party for me celebrating being named the Forbes Man of the Year were dispelled almost immediately upon arrival; already very late, I hurriedly snuck in and joined the table where Phoebe, Mr Insanity and Sapphire were already sitting even as Gilmore was addressing the podium.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending with such short notice. You’ll note that Jimmy Orlando will not be joining us today; his house mysteriously burned down yesterday, and I would like to extend my personal sympathies.”
“That’s horrible,” I says.
“Indeed,” says Gilmore, a little annoyed by the interruption. “I would also like to congratulate you all for having the highest circulation we’ve ever had this year. At this rate, we would most certainly have eventually turned a profit.”
“Would have?” Sapphire whispers.
“And as you all know, according to the Charter, Babs is the defacto CEO in Ethan’s absence. And since it’s been well over a week since Ethan was kidnapped, my may have to face the possibility that he may never return.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping?” whispered Mr Insanity.
“I’ll bet it’s Babs’ highly-developed maternal instinct,” I says.
Mr Insanity looked at me strangely. “Babs doesn’t have any kids.”
“God doesn’t give a woman breasts like that if He doesn’t intend for her to be a fantastic mother.”
“Well, while I find your logic rather fascinating,” Mr I says, “God didn’t give her those breasts. Doctor Helmsly did.”
Gilmore continued. “And as the Acting CEO of Predator Press, Babs has been forced to conclude that this business cannot continue without him. She has decided to close the doors and liquidate all the assets immediately.”
“English please,” I says. “We’re not all calculatrons you know.”
“None of you work here anymore,” says Gilmore.
“Oh thank God,” I says. “I’m freaking exhausted from all this getting up at 10 in the morning three or four days a week. And can you just mail me my paychecks? It’s a kinda long drive--”
“Perhaps,” says Gilmore, “I’m not being very clear.”
“Hey,” I says. “I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone when I ask you if there is there going to be food at this thing. I’m famished. Plus I’m tired … I had a very late night. And do you have any idea how hard it is getting a gasoline smell out of a ninja outfit? Let me tell you, it’s a big pain in the ass--”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Gilmore clearly into the microphone. “As of today, you’re all fired.”
“Who said anything about fire?” I says.
Suddenly, Mr Insanity’s hands are around Gilmore’s throat.
“You DICK!” he screamed.
Gilmore tried to squirm free, only further infuriating his assailant; Mr Insanity delivered three or four bone-crushing punches to his unprotected head before Sapphire could pull him off.
“Stop that Mr Insanity!” she demanded. “You’ll kill him before I get my turn!”
“We’re not killing him,” says Phoebe.
“What?”
“We’re not killing him,” she repeated. “We need him to find Babs, and we need Babs to find Ethan.”
Reluctantly, Mr Insanity relaxed. “You’re a fucking scumbag,” he says to Gilmore. “If it comes out that you had anything to do with this, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met until there aren’t even memories of you anymore.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re the second-worst 'Vice President of All Things LOBO' I’ve ever had!”
[LOBO]
Ethan disappearing isn’t really always that unusual; he’ll just up and go on a vacation or a business trip often without even packing.
But this is the first time he’s gone ten days without contacting anyone.
Making things worse is the glaring absence of Cobe; while that lazy fuck is off vacationing or whatever in the arctic, everything was beginning to fall apart without Ethan at the helm.
The sense of deterioration in the office was obvious and virtually palpable. Supplies were being ordered incorrectly –if in fact ordered at all. Bills were going unpaid. Deadlines were being missed. Things were so bad, when Babs asked me if I run the warehouse for a few days, I jumped at the chance.
The truth is I’m somewhat of a shipping and receiving prodigy. With a crew of 46 hard-scrabble industrial types, on a typical day we would receive about 26 semi trailers with materials and generally ship out about the same amount.
Now, under my radiant guidance, loads are brought into the north side of the building, processed, disseminated, recombined, and shipped out on trucks waiting on the south side just as usual. But now those trucks drive immediately back around to the north side, and the process is repeated.
But within only a few days, I have them doing triple the production. Hell, now I’m considering not letting the trucks stop here in the first place … just have the long line of semis circling the building clockwise. If they approve my on-site diesel refueling station, we’re talking nothing but round-the-clock efficiency.
Immediately after shuffling up the papers in Jimmy Orlando’s vacant office, I got the call instructing me –and all Predator Press executives—to meet at the banquet hall. My suspicions that it was a surprise party for me celebrating being named the Forbes Man of the Year were dispelled almost immediately upon arrival; already very late, I hurriedly snuck in and joined the table where Phoebe, Mr Insanity and Sapphire were already sitting even as Gilmore was addressing the podium.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending with such short notice. You’ll note that Jimmy Orlando will not be joining us today; his house mysteriously burned down yesterday, and I would like to extend my personal sympathies.”
“That’s horrible,” I says.
“Indeed,” says Gilmore, a little annoyed by the interruption. “I would also like to congratulate you all for having the highest circulation we’ve ever had this year. At this rate, we would most certainly have eventually turned a profit.”
“Would have?” Sapphire whispers.
“And as you all know, according to the Charter, Babs is the defacto CEO in Ethan’s absence. And since it’s been well over a week since Ethan was kidnapped, my may have to face the possibility that he may never return.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping?” whispered Mr Insanity.
“I’ll bet it’s Babs’ highly-developed maternal instinct,” I says.
Mr Insanity looked at me strangely. “Babs doesn’t have any kids.”
“God doesn’t give a woman breasts like that if He doesn’t intend for her to be a fantastic mother.”
“Well, while I find your logic rather fascinating,” Mr I says, “God didn’t give her those breasts. Doctor Helmsly did.”
Gilmore continued. “And as the Acting CEO of Predator Press, Babs has been forced to conclude that this business cannot continue without him. She has decided to close the doors and liquidate all the assets immediately.”
“English please,” I says. “We’re not all calculatrons you know.”
“None of you work here anymore,” says Gilmore.
“Oh thank God,” I says. “I’m freaking exhausted from all this getting up at 10 in the morning three or four days a week. And can you just mail me my paychecks? It’s a kinda long drive--”
“Perhaps,” says Gilmore, “I’m not being very clear.”
“Hey,” I says. “I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone when I ask you if there is there going to be food at this thing. I’m famished. Plus I’m tired … I had a very late night. And do you have any idea how hard it is getting a gasoline smell out of a ninja outfit? Let me tell you, it’s a big pain in the ass--”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Gilmore clearly into the microphone. “As of today, you’re all fired.”
“Who said anything about fire?” I says.
Suddenly, Mr Insanity’s hands are around Gilmore’s throat.
“You DICK!” he screamed.
Gilmore tried to squirm free, only further infuriating his assailant; Mr Insanity delivered three or four bone-crushing punches to his unprotected head before Sapphire could pull him off.
“Stop that Mr Insanity!” she demanded. “You’ll kill him before I get my turn!”
“We’re not killing him,” says Phoebe.
“What?”
“We’re not killing him,” she repeated. “We need him to find Babs, and we need Babs to find Ethan.”
Reluctantly, Mr Insanity relaxed. “You’re a fucking scumbag,” he says to Gilmore. “If it comes out that you had anything to do with this, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met until there aren’t even memories of you anymore.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re the second-worst 'Vice President of All Things LOBO' I’ve ever had!”
Wednesday
Day Six
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
Needless to say, tempers are wearing thin.
The strictly-distributed rations are low, and lack of hygiene is becoming painfully obvious to Phoebe and I. I have several days of 'scruff', and Phoebe's refusal to wear shorts during the hottest parts of the day suggests that she probably does too. We smell bad. Phoebe, without makeup and her usual vast assortment of beauty creams and oils seems to have aged ten years while simultaneously developing acne. Her cheeks are growing taut and sunken --as are mine probably.
Sapphire, an android, looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did a week ago; this I can understand. But as for LOBO, there is no explanation whatsoever; he's clean-shaven and smells faintly of Old Spice.
And he almost seems to have gained weight.
Is that what he was wearing when we got here?
"Good morning," says a distantly-familiar voice.
Surprised, we all turn to see Gilmore, dapper and smooth in a custom-fitted immaculate white suit.
"Where the hell did you come from?" I demand.
"That's not important," says Gilmore.
"Fuck you," says Phoebe. "Why don't you tell us what's important then? We've been stranded out here for a week!"
"Easy Phoebe," Sapphire chides lightly. "At least someone's here to get us out of here."
"Awe," says LOBO. "I was just starting to enjoy this-"
"I'm sorry," says Gilmore. "I'm under strict orders not to extract you from the exercise until Ethan gives the word."
"Well where is Ethan then?" I ask pointedly.
"We don't know," says Gilmore. "No one has seen him since he dropped you guys off."
"So you think you're going to just leave us here?" says Sapphire. "Because if that's the case-"
"Look, I'm very sorry," hedges Gilmore. "Ethan was very clear about this." He points southward. "I'm not to intervene until I see his signal flare fire from over behind that hill."
We all look. "What hill?" I says.
And Gilmore was gone.
"Oh God Damnit," cries Phoebe.
***
A brief search of the area turned up nothing.
Exhausted, we return to our camp.
"I can't believe he gave us the slip like that," says Phoebe.
"Maybe he wasn't even here," offers LOBO helpfully.
"What like he was a mirage or something?" growls Phoebe. "You're lucky I'm out of pepper spray."
"I'm thirsty," I says. Shaking the canteen, it makes a hollow sound. "Looks like this is the last of the water."
"Wonderful," says Phoebe.
As I pour her a few drops, the thought of a salt with pepper spray flashes through my mind, and stomach growls audibly.
"C'mon LOBO," I says.
"Why don't you guys go ahead. I'm not very thirsty."
"Well," says Sapphire suspiciously. "How very noble of you."
"I'm fine," he insists. "But I have to go to the bathroom. I'll see you guys in a little bit."
Watching him slip off into the woods, Sapphire nudges me. "I smell a rat."
"Yeah," says Phoebe. "Every time he goes to the bathroom, he's gone for three or more hours."
"I agree," I says. "In fact, right before Gilmore showed up, I was trying to decide whether or not he had somehow changed clothes."
"Hm," says Phoebe.
"I say we follow him," says Sapphire.
"Let's go."
***
We didn't get 1000 feet before we could hear the river ... and Phoebe and I were so thirsty, we instantly burst into a run. LOBO didn't see us until we were overtaking him.
"Hey!" he complains. "That's my water! I got dibs. I spotted it first from up in the tree fair and square. Find your own!"
Sapphire, unaffected by thirst, chose instead to grab LOBO fiercely by the collar of his shirt. "You knew where there was water this whole time and you didn't tell us?"
"Hey, hey!" cried LOBO, squirming. "Where's your teambuilding spirit? Ethan might see you, and we'll be stuck out here even longer."
Scooping water into my mouth, something floating in the stream catches my eye. Wading in up to my knees, I pick it up and inspect it.
"I don't think we have to worry about Ethan seeing us," I says.
"Why?" says Phoebe between gulps.
I hold the soggy item up for them to see.
It's a battered and torn tan vacationer's hat.
"No," says Sapphire.
"Those hats are common. It might not be Ethan's at all," says Phoebe optimistically.
Turning it inside out, I show them the large initials inked into the liner.
E.H.
"Were going to have to travel upstream and try and figure out what happened to him."
"Well," concedes LOBO "I'm fine with you helping yourselves to my water I suppose, but stay the hell out of my 7-11!"
[Mr Insanity]
Needless to say, tempers are wearing thin.
The strictly-distributed rations are low, and lack of hygiene is becoming painfully obvious to Phoebe and I. I have several days of 'scruff', and Phoebe's refusal to wear shorts during the hottest parts of the day suggests that she probably does too. We smell bad. Phoebe, without makeup and her usual vast assortment of beauty creams and oils seems to have aged ten years while simultaneously developing acne. Her cheeks are growing taut and sunken --as are mine probably.
Sapphire, an android, looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did a week ago; this I can understand. But as for LOBO, there is no explanation whatsoever; he's clean-shaven and smells faintly of Old Spice.
And he almost seems to have gained weight.
Is that what he was wearing when we got here?
"Good morning," says a distantly-familiar voice.
Surprised, we all turn to see Gilmore, dapper and smooth in a custom-fitted immaculate white suit.
"Where the hell did you come from?" I demand.
"That's not important," says Gilmore.
"Fuck you," says Phoebe. "Why don't you tell us what's important then? We've been stranded out here for a week!"
"Easy Phoebe," Sapphire chides lightly. "At least someone's here to get us out of here."
"Awe," says LOBO. "I was just starting to enjoy this-"
"I'm sorry," says Gilmore. "I'm under strict orders not to extract you from the exercise until Ethan gives the word."
"Well where is Ethan then?" I ask pointedly.
"We don't know," says Gilmore. "No one has seen him since he dropped you guys off."
"So you think you're going to just leave us here?" says Sapphire. "Because if that's the case-"
"Look, I'm very sorry," hedges Gilmore. "Ethan was very clear about this." He points southward. "I'm not to intervene until I see his signal flare fire from over behind that hill."
We all look. "What hill?" I says.
And Gilmore was gone.
"Oh God Damnit," cries Phoebe.
A brief search of the area turned up nothing.
Exhausted, we return to our camp.
"I can't believe he gave us the slip like that," says Phoebe.
"Maybe he wasn't even here," offers LOBO helpfully.
"What like he was a mirage or something?" growls Phoebe. "You're lucky I'm out of pepper spray."
"I'm thirsty," I says. Shaking the canteen, it makes a hollow sound. "Looks like this is the last of the water."
"Wonderful," says Phoebe.
As I pour her a few drops, the thought of a salt with pepper spray flashes through my mind, and stomach growls audibly.
"C'mon LOBO," I says.
"Why don't you guys go ahead. I'm not very thirsty."
"Well," says Sapphire suspiciously. "How very noble of you."
"I'm fine," he insists. "But I have to go to the bathroom. I'll see you guys in a little bit."
Watching him slip off into the woods, Sapphire nudges me. "I smell a rat."
"Yeah," says Phoebe. "Every time he goes to the bathroom, he's gone for three or more hours."
"I agree," I says. "In fact, right before Gilmore showed up, I was trying to decide whether or not he had somehow changed clothes."
"Hm," says Phoebe.
"I say we follow him," says Sapphire.
"Let's go."
We didn't get 1000 feet before we could hear the river ... and Phoebe and I were so thirsty, we instantly burst into a run. LOBO didn't see us until we were overtaking him.
"Hey!" he complains. "That's my water! I got dibs. I spotted it first from up in the tree fair and square. Find your own!"
Sapphire, unaffected by thirst, chose instead to grab LOBO fiercely by the collar of his shirt. "You knew where there was water this whole time and you didn't tell us?"
"Hey, hey!" cried LOBO, squirming. "Where's your teambuilding spirit? Ethan might see you, and we'll be stuck out here even longer."
Scooping water into my mouth, something floating in the stream catches my eye. Wading in up to my knees, I pick it up and inspect it.
"I don't think we have to worry about Ethan seeing us," I says.
"Why?" says Phoebe between gulps.
I hold the soggy item up for them to see.
It's a battered and torn tan vacationer's hat.
"No," says Sapphire.
"Those hats are common. It might not be Ethan's at all," says Phoebe optimistically.
Turning it inside out, I show them the large initials inked into the liner.
"Were going to have to travel upstream and try and figure out what happened to him."
"Well," concedes LOBO "I'm fine with you helping yourselves to my water I suppose, but stay the hell out of my 7-11!"
Tuesday
Day Two
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
You know, it's been about 30 years since I've done anything similar to camping. And while not particularly exited about the idea at first, it soon became apparent that LOBO wasn't going to be hanging around; this leaves the rather attractive prospect of me alone with Sapphire and Phoebe for however long this "teambuilding" exercise will last.
LOBO -despite his claims to have been on a few of these activities before-seemed to rattle rather quickly. After a few hours of staring despondently into the woods where Ethan drove off sort of sulkily resigned himself to "roughing it".
This lasted around eight minutes.
Frustrated by his inability to find a way to plug in his canteen and mess kit, he was soon bored, hungry, and growing increasingly agitated by the sounds of the wildlife surrounding us in the darkening wood.
"What was that!?" he would demand abruptly.
"I think it was a sparrow," volunteers Sapphire.
"How dare Ethan leave me out here unarmed in a wilderness full of fierce, carnivorous sparrows?"
"LOBO," sighs Phoebe. "I'm sure Ethan is somewhere close by ... he's probably watching us right now. Now would you please come down out of that tree?"
"Yes," I add. "And you do realize that sparrows can fly, right?"
LOBO shrieked. "We can't just sit out here starving to death. Listen ... you can just hear those savage beasts waiting for us to become weak and emaciated, that they may feast upon our entrails!"
"Look," says Sapphire. "There's nothing we can do about any of this. What we need to do is set up a camp for the night and get a fire going."
"Don't let me stop you," he says from somewhere in the tree.
I find a nice, round rock about the size of a baseball and nudge Phoebe. Repeatedly pinching my fingers and thumb together by my mouth, I give her the universal sign language for 'keep him talking' as I quietly circle the tree.
"LOBO," Phoebe says coaxingly. "We need your help."
"Doing what?"
Sapphire, seeing me homing in on his voice, catches on. "We need your help to gather firewood."
"Firewood?" LOBO laughs. "Oh my god you must be joking. That stuff is filthy. And probably crawling with bugs and stuff."
"How else are we going to build a fire?" asks Sapphire.
"Silly girl," laughs LOBO condescendingly. "Don't you see that there is no better way of giving up our location to all the predatory creatures out here than to build a fire? Why don't you just smear yourself with barbeque sauce while holding up a gigantic neon sign that says 'EAT ME'-- ?"
The sound of the rock whipping through the air, leaves and branches was followed by a sharp distinct crack.
Silence.
"My god," whispers Sapphire. "That was 86 miles per hour!"
"I played AAA for a few years." I smile smugly.
"LOBO?" called Phoebe, slightly concerned.
Nothing.
"Three, two, one ... " I count aloud.
Suddenly, there's a rustling sound, subtle at first, then a series of sharp cracks, and finally the loud, dull thump of LOBO's inert body crashing into the ground. Startled, thirty or so alarmed sparrows take flight in random directions.
"Do that again!" Sapphire applauds.
[Mr Insanity]
You know, it's been about 30 years since I've done anything similar to camping. And while not particularly exited about the idea at first, it soon became apparent that LOBO wasn't going to be hanging around; this leaves the rather attractive prospect of me alone with Sapphire and Phoebe for however long this "teambuilding" exercise will last.
LOBO -despite his claims to have been on a few of these activities before-seemed to rattle rather quickly. After a few hours of staring despondently into the woods where Ethan drove off sort of sulkily resigned himself to "roughing it".
This lasted around eight minutes.
Frustrated by his inability to find a way to plug in his canteen and mess kit, he was soon bored, hungry, and growing increasingly agitated by the sounds of the wildlife surrounding us in the darkening wood.
"What was that!?" he would demand abruptly.
"I think it was a sparrow," volunteers Sapphire.
"How dare Ethan leave me out here unarmed in a wilderness full of fierce, carnivorous sparrows?"
"LOBO," sighs Phoebe. "I'm sure Ethan is somewhere close by ... he's probably watching us right now. Now would you please come down out of that tree?"
"Yes," I add. "And you do realize that sparrows can fly, right?"
LOBO shrieked. "We can't just sit out here starving to death. Listen ... you can just hear those savage beasts waiting for us to become weak and emaciated, that they may feast upon our entrails!"
"Look," says Sapphire. "There's nothing we can do about any of this. What we need to do is set up a camp for the night and get a fire going."
"Don't let me stop you," he says from somewhere in the tree.
I find a nice, round rock about the size of a baseball and nudge Phoebe. Repeatedly pinching my fingers and thumb together by my mouth, I give her the universal sign language for 'keep him talking' as I quietly circle the tree.
"LOBO," Phoebe says coaxingly. "We need your help."
"Doing what?"
Sapphire, seeing me homing in on his voice, catches on. "We need your help to gather firewood."
"Firewood?" LOBO laughs. "Oh my god you must be joking. That stuff is filthy. And probably crawling with bugs and stuff."
"How else are we going to build a fire?" asks Sapphire.
"Silly girl," laughs LOBO condescendingly. "Don't you see that there is no better way of giving up our location to all the predatory creatures out here than to build a fire? Why don't you just smear yourself with barbeque sauce while holding up a gigantic neon sign that says 'EAT ME'-- ?"
The sound of the rock whipping through the air, leaves and branches was followed by a sharp distinct crack.
Silence.
"My god," whispers Sapphire. "That was 86 miles per hour!"
"I played AAA for a few years." I smile smugly.
"LOBO?" called Phoebe, slightly concerned.
Nothing.
"Three, two, one ... " I count aloud.
Suddenly, there's a rustling sound, subtle at first, then a series of sharp cracks, and finally the loud, dull thump of LOBO's inert body crashing into the ground. Startled, thirty or so alarmed sparrows take flight in random directions.
"Do that again!" Sapphire applauds.
Sunday
Team Building
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“This will be good for you,” Ethan says to us in the mirror, tilting his faded tan vacationers hat.
“You see?” I says to Sapphire, “I told you this would suck. This is one of those ‘Character Building’ scams our parents used to play on us.”
Ethan pulls over in a thick green and brown wad of nothing.
Mr Insanity, Phoebe and Sapphire disembark.
Ethan puts an arm behind the passenger seat, twisting to see me. “You too, buddy.”
“But Ethan,” I protest.
“I’m going to be right here. We’re doing this together.”
“Okay,” I says. I get out, and Ethan peels out into the woods, spitting mud everywhere.
“Nice going dumbass,” says Mr. Insanity.
“What exactly did you write about me?” asks Sapphire.
“Does anyone else have any supplies?” asks Phoebe.
“I’ve got the survival kit that Ethan left,” says Mr. Insanity.
“And I’ve got an internal GPS,” says Sapphire.
Phoebe scowls, “Well, I’ve got an internal IUD.”
“Ladies, ladies,” I says, “I’ve got everything under control. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through one of Ethan’s teambuilding exercises.”
Mr. Insanity balks. “Oh really genius? Whatcha got?”
I pick up a naked live wire with one hand, gingerly balancing my Cherry Coke Slurpee in the other. “I’ve got this. “
“What the fuck is that?” demands Phoebe as it cracks violently in the air.
“It’s an extension cord,” I says smugly. “I’ve been unrolling it since we met at that 7-11.”
“A broken extension cord,” sighs Mr. Insanity. “Well thank God we have one of those.”
“Maybe LOBO’s right for once,” says Phoebe. “At least we can find our way back to wherever that plug ripped out …”
[LOBO]
“This will be good for you,” Ethan says to us in the mirror, tilting his faded tan vacationers hat.
“You see?” I says to Sapphire, “I told you this would suck. This is one of those ‘Character Building’ scams our parents used to play on us.”
Ethan pulls over in a thick green and brown wad of nothing.
Mr Insanity, Phoebe and Sapphire disembark.
Ethan puts an arm behind the passenger seat, twisting to see me. “You too, buddy.”
“But Ethan,” I protest.
“I’m going to be right here. We’re doing this together.”
“Okay,” I says. I get out, and Ethan peels out into the woods, spitting mud everywhere.
“Nice going dumbass,” says Mr. Insanity.
“What exactly did you write about me?” asks Sapphire.
“Does anyone else have any supplies?” asks Phoebe.
“I’ve got the survival kit that Ethan left,” says Mr. Insanity.
“And I’ve got an internal GPS,” says Sapphire.
Phoebe scowls, “Well, I’ve got an internal IUD.”
“Ladies, ladies,” I says, “I’ve got everything under control. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through one of Ethan’s teambuilding exercises.”
Mr. Insanity balks. “Oh really genius? Whatcha got?”
I pick up a naked live wire with one hand, gingerly balancing my Cherry Coke Slurpee in the other. “I’ve got this. “
“What the fuck is that?” demands Phoebe as it cracks violently in the air.
“It’s an extension cord,” I says smugly. “I’ve been unrolling it since we met at that 7-11.”
“A broken extension cord,” sighs Mr. Insanity. “Well thank God we have one of those.”
“Maybe LOBO’s right for once,” says Phoebe. “At least we can find our way back to wherever that plug ripped out …”
Thursday
Ten Years Gone
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Believe it or not, there was a time when the world didn't have Predator Press yet. And without Predator Press around to document an accurate and quantified objective world history, little is know about these dark times: they are shrouded in legends and mystery.
Oh, sure. There are "history" books chocked full of fanciful and unverifiable claims such as the Lunar Landing, Women's Suffrage, and the existence of Australia. But remember what history books cost? Compare that to the price of your Predator Press subscription. Hell, at $50 or more a pop, I would be tempted to tell you stuff like 'the world is round' and Steve Gutenberg invented the movable type as well. I mean who the hell would need that?
We have integrity.
The reason this comes up now is because Lady Pyrate has recently uncovered some pre-Predator Press documents written by me. Doing my duty as a citizen, I first emailed the Smithsonian notifying them of the staggering significance of this find. But they have not yet responded, and I can no longer be part of such an obvious covering-up of The Truth.
So what follows is all we know about the Earth before Predator Press ...
***
Sunday: An Odd Request
When an old friend of some 16-odd years, asked me to submit something to a literary column, I was a little stunned.
Me? Literature? I told her that I would have no idea what to write ... and frankly wouldn't know literature if it bit me on the ass.
She was persistent. She even recommended a way to overcome writer's block: to start with a daily log. I found this equally laughable; I am as insufferably boring as anything on Earth. NOTHING interesting ever happens to me. And to tell the truth, I like it that way: all this "having a personality" and "being interesting" -cripes, that's a lot of work! I'm as lazy as a rug on valiums. Oh, sure, one day your just flitting around your "interesting life", then BOOM! Suddenly you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign on I-65 South at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possum. Then, a gang of well-dressed Yakuza screeches up in a Hummer, then leaps out of the bushes --just for effect-- kicks your ass into dog food, and then leaps INTO the bushes, peels off in the Hummer. WITH the possum.
Screw THAT. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. In fact, is there such a thing as "Excruciatingly Boring"?
But there's no getting around this I guess. Starting tomorrow, my tedious existence –and all of it's gloriously lackluster minutia-- will be racing out at violent speeds all over the internet, searing itself deeply behind some poor unsuspecting souls' retinas.
Sorry.
Monday: The Fallen
My suffering was complete and total --such that demons, flittering from the hated light in darkened alleyways, chattily whispering dark rumors before slipping from the senses of man altogether. I was destroyed: depilated under the fickle whim of cruel destiny. I remember it all as if it were only a few hours ago. It seems like ages. Now ... gasping and bleeding, repentant, and most assuredly dead within moments, I desperately tell my woeful tale, that no other follows in my footsteps.
I was unlocking the case for that accused sword -a three thousand dollar steal, reputed to have been cursed for at least as many years. The UPS driver who had delivered it had accidentally left his delivery van in 'neutral', and I was saved only by dumb luck and my well-rehearsed "Throw the UPS Guy Under his Runaway Van To Change It's Deadly Trajectory" ninja moves. God Bless you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rest in peace. But there can be only one!
I tried once again to unlock the impressive and ancient wooden chest before me. The key ... the heavy metal skeleton key, overly large and heavy, was beautifully engraved, and had a gem-encrusted skull on it. Still, this key seemed not to budge the delicate, ancient mechanisms inside the lock. I tried to peer inside the lock to examine it, and I swear, if not for the whimpers of the UPS guy distracting me, that poisoned needle shooting out would have poked my eye out. It landed authoritatively in the shoulder of the UPS guy. Poor bastard. Soon, a NASA satellite crashed into my house, completely blocking the driveway. Then a train plowed through the ashes and rubble. Then the rock band Great White held a concert on the remains.
I began to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
The sword! Of course! My heart leapt. I raced over to the charred body of the UPS guy, and grabbed the shipment paperwork. I tore at the envelope urgently, even as the Venusian invading alien armada began firing their plasma rifles at the Cryps, who were scouting out new territory. Bullets and plasma bursts ripped past my head as I read the bill of sale:
CONGRATULATIONS
You have won 'One Ancient Cursed Sword EXCLAIMER'.
Guaranteed full refund if not completely satisfied.
(Warranty void if item is actually cursed.)
Thank you for shopping on Ebay
Those bastards! I'm going to leave absolutely venomous ‘Feedback’!
It was then that I was then that I struck down ... cut in the full of my robust, athletic prime ... for as I through the bill of sale in anguish and frustration, the edge of the paper cut deeply into the pad of my right thumb. At first I didn't even notice, distracted by The Mystery Machine as it screeched into a fatal rollover accident inches to my left. Thelma screamed as it exploded in a fiery maelstrom of twisted metal, cheesy upholstery and dog parts. Daphne shrieked, and quickly thinking, she pulled her pink scarf over her mouth and nose ... but this aided her little when the VW Van's transmission came back down.
It was then I noticed the mild and uncomfortable prick on my finger. Even as I looked, the horseshoe-shaped outline welled with the red rivulet my very life's blood.
And it was very bloody life's blood.
And red.
Tuesday: X-Box Rehab
That's the last thing I remember. Then the triage unit was shining lights into my pupils and whisking me off to the ambulance. In my agony, I didn't even notice the violent jarring as they wheeled my stretcher over the UPS guy's head.
Poor bastard.
But now I am a mere shell of a man, completely incapable of playing either X-Box or Playstation II. Perhaps I should envy the UPS man. I can't shoot at anything. I just stand there helplessly in the dungeons of Diablo II, vainly trying to hammer out peace accords with the zombies. And everybody knows that zombies are Goddamn deadbeats!
The people here in X-Box Rehab Clinic are very nice, but I can see it in their eyes, in the subtle gestures: they don't have much hope for me. Heavily sedated, it's all I can do to flirt with the nurses. It's hard to flirt in a nightgown that doesn't cover your ass, but necessity is the mother of desperation.
They noticed I was getting pretty quick on that wheelchair, so pretty soon, they were upping my dosage. They started bringing the needle, clearly marked "Rhino" in on a creaking surgical cart. I would think "Cool! They got a Rhino!", and would patiently wait to see such a magnificent creature enter my recovery room. But then somehow the needle ends up in my arm, shoulder -whatever they can happen to hit with that dart gun, and things get kinda fuzzy again.
Goddamn it, what's it take to get some Jello here!?
I managed to palm a few doses: some Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. Luckily, my hot nurse Melody was addicted to Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. When she was changing my bedpan, I offered them to her in exchange for releasing my giant one-eyed purple worm.
I was surprised when they even let me in with that caged beastie ... I think they thought that a pet would have speeded my recovery. But my one-eyed purple worm, once released, burst through the walls of the X-Box Rehab, and trampled most of the facilities before it was finally put down by Sheriff Cassidy with a miraculous shot to the beast's brain. Poor bastard.
But by then, Melody and I had already vanished into the smoke and confusion.
Wednesday: The Chase Ensues
It's exactly midnight, and Melody and I are crossing the City Limits on Interstate 65 South pushing a wheelbarrow full of Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. The Rhino meds are evidently wearing off, because I'm suddenly very self-conscious that:
1)my thumb is mortally wounded, and
B) the hospital gown doesn't cover my ass.
--The latter mitigated by the fact that we were walking against the oncoming traffic.
During small talk I find out that she's a big Great White fan, and was very impressed that they had played at my house. She claimed through full, pouty red lips that nightgowns with no backsides on guys drove her absolutely wild. Excitement mounting, she finally dragged me into the bushes, deciding to show me "just what a freak she really was”.
Soon, there we were in the bushes, her pulling her shoes off. And sure enough, she was a freak indeed.
She had six toes on each foot.
"Wow" I breathed.
I never even saw the red bead of Sheriff Cassidy's laser scope zero in on my ass. Bang! Suddenly Melody throws herself in front of the bullet. Dying, she looks deeply into my eyes and says "I'll always love you!". And then she makes this choking kinda sound, and the creepy six-toed bitch dies right there in my arms.
Yech! Sheriff Cassidy was muddling with the deputy on just exactly how you stuff and mount a six-toed girl when I stole his car. I found that if you touched the doughnuts in a certain order -coconut, double chocolate, long john-I could reprogram the police computer too. (It could also call down a Death Ray from new law enforcement satellite "Justice IV", but I didn't know where Sammy Hagar lived). I put myself down as "nun" and Sheriff Cassidy as "Child Molester at Large". It's a game that's fun for all ages.
So I'm blazing down the road in a police car at 1:30 am, contemplating moodily the strange events of the past few days.
Well, that and thinking how creepy it was to be sitting bare-assed on a seat cushion that Sheriff Cassidy had doubtless dispersed untold numbers of White Castles and Busch farts into. Surely he MUST have had a spare uniform in the car!
Looking around, that's when I spotted PEG.
The steel box had holes in the top, and chains over the hinged doors which were clearly marked "PEG". I recognized it instantly. This was a specially-trained new military experiment: attack possums. This just wasn't any average garden-variety bullshit possum either; she was the model 6800, fully equipped with a rocket launcher and a super-secret stealth pouch on her belly (which I heard was developed by the CIA). Beside PEG was a small baggie marked "UPS GUY REMAINS".
PEG was a sly one too. All through the trip, she moaned and grunted for me to let her out. She wagged her tail and tossed a stick playfully. She whined, and licked my hand. The little tramp even offered to drive. But it was just me, lost in thought, blowing down I-65, foot to the floor in a stolen police car. With no pants.
"Dammit," I thought. "I want my goddamn pants!" so I screeched into a U-turn, and blazed directly back at the giant one-eyed purple worm corpse, nestled peacefully amongst the wreckage of what was once the X-Box Rehabilitation Facilities, on the horizon.
I don't know why I developed such a curiosity over "Spike Strips" that night. I certainly never should have begun messing with them in the front seat while PEG was driving 124 miles an hour, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. I've never seen a car actually explode before. It was kinda anticlimactic. Feul, steel, chrome, plastic, White Castle and Busch farts all just kinda Fffffoomph!
But I got it on video.
Thursday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
Your satellite is blocking my driveway. Again. Please have it moved in 48 hours, or I'll have it towed and crushed into a cube. Either that, or sell it on Ebay.
Thank you,
LOBO
Friday: Obligatory Nude Scene [Screenplay Version]
As predicted, the presence of a NASA satellite in my driveway has made the Venusians very nervous. Silly really ... the Cryps left the thing on cinder blocks three days ago. Still, I've seen the movie "Signs", so I'm stowing up Super-Soakers (while the Cryps aren't exactly model houseguests, at least they leave their shoes on when they walk on the carpet. Those Venusians leave snail-trails on EVERYTHING).
The peace talks continue. G Q P Doll, the Cryps' fourth Chief Negotiator, wants them to deal only on streets not currently "occupied" by the Cryps; unfortunately, that rules out most of the Earth except Singapore, Uruguay, and ever-shrinking portions of Antarctica.
The Venusians, on the other hand, having no idea what "dealing" exactly is, seem content having eaten the Cryps' first three Chief Negotiators.
For now.
The Cryps, it turns out, have not wasted all those years of complete law enforcement autonomy ... they had invented some pretty cool technology. It turns out that The Bloods had infiltrated Area 51 in '99, but Sugar Juice's bitch-assed-ho ran to the Cryps' after getting dissed at a pool party by Biggie Smalls via an Olympic sized Oijia diving board. She had intra-dimensional technology, 60,000 plasma rifles, enormous breasts, and a half dozen Krispy Kremes back at the crib.
So by this time, the Cryps had a interstellar cruiser and two blockade runners that could do the Kessel Run in -oops, they're already done-and 120,000 shares in Krispy Kremes as to finance their Galactic Empire.
More after I get coffee.
Saturday: Cheap Styrofoam Cups
I don't MIND being the token white guy on the Earth Pimp IV, but I DO mind wearing the red uniform. Using my "Stuff the Senior Science Officer Out of a Handy Porthole Without Messing Up His Uniform" ninja moves, (Curse you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rot with the rest! There can be only one!) I gained access to the Bridge.
Then, using my elevated security clearance, I demanded that a kickass uniform be designed for me, while drinking a Krispy Kreme latte. You know, "multitasking". This uniform had to be somewhere between "Han Solo" and Sting in that Dune movie. But it had to have a black cape too. And give me X-Ray vision.
Suddenly, I distorted the shiny Flange Reactant Capacitor in such a way that the glowing blue nuclear Whim-Jam flipped on the spiffy Sub-Entropic Whatsit generator couplers. (Well that's what they told me spilling my latte all over the dashboard did.) The Goddamn drink was like six bucks, and this engineering punk bumped into me in a rush to fix some stupid thing clearly labeled 'massive oxygen leak' or something. I ordered the self-important little asshole executed on the spot.
Now the Goddamn Bridge stinks of barbequed engineer. My eyes burn, but I can't tell if it's the smoke or my X-Ray vision kicking in. Just as I demand somebody vacuum up all the floating dust, the Venusians broke our flank, targeted the Inertial Compensators, and BOOM! We're spinning helplessly into the Godless void of space ...
I fucking hate when this happens.
Sunday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
SOS
No, I don't know anything about a missing UPS guy. But do you have any idea how to get latte out of a Flange Reactant Capacitor? Or maybe how to get engineer dust out of an Inertial Compensator?
Mayday. Mayday.
... Uh, no ... that's 'Latte' ... "L-A-T-T-E" ... Fuck! What are you NASA people, BARBARIANS!?
Monday: The Last Time I Even Thought of This "Science" Stuff, I Had an Evil Kenevil Lunchbox
Our distress signal was ignored. NASA was too preoccupied with the insidious wedding J-Lo and Ben Affleck. People were starting to suspect I wasn't the Science Officer too.
I thought maybe a caped Spandex uniform without ass cheeks might not be conservative enough. But the real giveaway was at breakfast when I opened my milk carton from the wrong side. God how embarrassing.
Luckily, the ship had a public library ... I could check out space porn while people thought I was researching "physics", "math", or some silly other thing. I made up "The Callistaplastic Y-Ray Dymicrophoric Theory" so people would stop bugging me with science questions. I mean, first of all, you would have to pronounce it properly. Then finally, after days of prying, I might finally admit that "Being subjected to these 'Y' rays might make your parents retroactively prone to promiscuity, dysfunction, bad budgeting and tastelessness."
No one ever asks about the theory twice.
Tuesday: Boring.
Today was just as dull as ever. I wish I had something interesting to write about.
… Maybe tomorrow
Wednesday: So I Meet This Space Chick
It took like all of five seconds to start getting Space SPAM. But from the SPAM, I could tell that the rest of the known universe is also dominated by the female. It's fairly elementary ... I deduced that if SPAM requests to "Enlarge Your Penis Twice the Size!", it's female dominated. If it says "Shrink Her Vagina Now!", it's male. Case closed.
But then this hologram cuts in and this tall, beautiful woman in a tiny latex outfit exclaims "Help me!," she pleads, chin quivering. One of her tears drips onto her tanned chest. Rather than rolling down to hang tantalizingly from a latex-covered nipple like a drop of heroin from a hypo tip, it disappeared between her sweaty, heaving breasts with a faintly audible steamy hiss. A damsel in distress!, I thought. And a freakin HOT damsel, with sweaty, heaving space breasts. I'll go you one further: she's a rich, scantily-clad princess, and desperately in need of rescue from a handsome brave hero type guy! And did I mention the space breasts!?
Offhand I couldn't think of a handsome brave hero type guy I could hire. But this poor helpless woman, caught adrift in the raging wake of cruel Cosmic Destiny ... armed only with her fierce, feminine courage, savage determination, and sweating, heaving space breasts ... I knew it was destiny.
Thank God the rare "can-do" kind of guy like me showed up.
The crew tried to talk me out of it, too. They tried giving me an android pleasure servant named Tulsa v1.1 who was drop-dead gorgeous, kind, unassuming, faithful, intelligent, well-versed in Van Halen music, free-spirited and bisexual, a gymnast and contortionist, an excellent cook --and a while a formidable 10th degree black belt bodyguard at the same time was as gentle as a fragrant prairie breeze. And she would never gain weight, have a period, be insecure or jealous, or age a day. She even came with a 100-year warranty never to have a headache, ask if she looked fat, if I thought another woman was pretty, or about my 'feelings'.
She was great. I really regretted jettisoning her into space. But when I found out you had to change her battery every seventeen to twenty years, I wasn't sure I was up to the commitment. I mean she was just too needy for me. The princess, on the other hand, was aloof, unattainable, moody, rude, boorish, and didn't have enough mental voltage operating to jump start a mouse trap. I was crazy about her. But space communication is regulated in a strange, alien way; to get the coordinates to rescue her, I evidently had to have a VISA. Where am I supposed to steal a VISA out here? The even rejected my final offer: 1000 hours of America Online internet service.
I wish I knew all this before I vaporized that engineer.
Poor Bastard.
Thursday: The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Okay, great. Now everybody is pissed at me. ME! All I did was lift a VISA off of my Assistant Chief Science Officer.
Like it was my fault. Come on ... he was obviously leaving it out to tempt me; there it was, staring me in the face every second I was rifling through his wallet, which was tucked in a sock under his dresser in a secret storage unit that could only be accessed by a short spacewalk on the underside of the ship.
Now, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Editor of this web page is complaining about my BLOG via email. Evidently, she doesn't believe a word of my experience a the X-Box clinic, the UPS conspiracy for my murder, me being Chief Science Officer of Earth Pimp IV ... She's like trying to operate this serious art page about serious artist doing serious art. So I figure I owe that to her and the literary-type readers. So for you poetry fans, here's a Haiku I wrote:
I once killed a man right there in algebra class
He tried to combine two unlike exponents
And then adding radicals without the same index
What a moron
Okay. Anyway. So there we are hurdling through space, helplessly outnumbered, and demanding the surrender of the Princess …
[LOBO]
Believe it or not, there was a time when the world didn't have Predator Press yet. And without Predator Press around to document an accurate and quantified objective world history, little is know about these dark times: they are shrouded in legends and mystery.
Oh, sure. There are "history" books chocked full of fanciful and unverifiable claims such as the Lunar Landing, Women's Suffrage, and the existence of Australia. But remember what history books cost? Compare that to the price of your Predator Press subscription. Hell, at $50 or more a pop, I would be tempted to tell you stuff like 'the world is round' and Steve Gutenberg invented the movable type as well. I mean who the hell would need that?
We have integrity.
The reason this comes up now is because Lady Pyrate has recently uncovered some pre-Predator Press documents written by me. Doing my duty as a citizen, I first emailed the Smithsonian notifying them of the staggering significance of this find. But they have not yet responded, and I can no longer be part of such an obvious covering-up of The Truth.
So what follows is all we know about the Earth before Predator Press ...
When an old friend of some 16-odd years, asked me to submit something to a literary column, I was a little stunned.
Me? Literature? I told her that I would have no idea what to write ... and frankly wouldn't know literature if it bit me on the ass.
She was persistent. She even recommended a way to overcome writer's block: to start with a daily log. I found this equally laughable; I am as insufferably boring as anything on Earth. NOTHING interesting ever happens to me. And to tell the truth, I like it that way: all this "having a personality" and "being interesting" -cripes, that's a lot of work! I'm as lazy as a rug on valiums. Oh, sure, one day your just flitting around your "interesting life", then BOOM! Suddenly you're walking past the 'City Limits' sign on I-65 South at 2:17 am carrying nothing other than a caged, pissed-off possum. Then, a gang of well-dressed Yakuza screeches up in a Hummer, then leaps out of the bushes --just for effect-- kicks your ass into dog food, and then leaps INTO the bushes, peels off in the Hummer. WITH the possum.
Screw THAT. I'll stick with "Insufferably Boring", thanks. In fact, is there such a thing as "Excruciatingly Boring"?
But there's no getting around this I guess. Starting tomorrow, my tedious existence –and all of it's gloriously lackluster minutia-- will be racing out at violent speeds all over the internet, searing itself deeply behind some poor unsuspecting souls' retinas.
Sorry.
Monday: The Fallen
My suffering was complete and total --such that demons, flittering from the hated light in darkened alleyways, chattily whispering dark rumors before slipping from the senses of man altogether. I was destroyed: depilated under the fickle whim of cruel destiny. I remember it all as if it were only a few hours ago. It seems like ages. Now ... gasping and bleeding, repentant, and most assuredly dead within moments, I desperately tell my woeful tale, that no other follows in my footsteps.
I was unlocking the case for that accused sword -a three thousand dollar steal, reputed to have been cursed for at least as many years. The UPS driver who had delivered it had accidentally left his delivery van in 'neutral', and I was saved only by dumb luck and my well-rehearsed "Throw the UPS Guy Under his Runaway Van To Change It's Deadly Trajectory" ninja moves. God Bless you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rest in peace. But there can be only one!
I tried once again to unlock the impressive and ancient wooden chest before me. The key ... the heavy metal skeleton key, overly large and heavy, was beautifully engraved, and had a gem-encrusted skull on it. Still, this key seemed not to budge the delicate, ancient mechanisms inside the lock. I tried to peer inside the lock to examine it, and I swear, if not for the whimpers of the UPS guy distracting me, that poisoned needle shooting out would have poked my eye out. It landed authoritatively in the shoulder of the UPS guy. Poor bastard. Soon, a NASA satellite crashed into my house, completely blocking the driveway. Then a train plowed through the ashes and rubble. Then the rock band Great White held a concert on the remains.
I began to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
The sword! Of course! My heart leapt. I raced over to the charred body of the UPS guy, and grabbed the shipment paperwork. I tore at the envelope urgently, even as the Venusian invading alien armada began firing their plasma rifles at the Cryps, who were scouting out new territory. Bullets and plasma bursts ripped past my head as I read the bill of sale:
You have won 'One Ancient Cursed Sword EXCLAIMER'.
Guaranteed full refund if not completely satisfied.
(Warranty void if item is actually cursed.)
Thank you for shopping on Ebay
It was then that I was then that I struck down ... cut in the full of my robust, athletic prime ... for as I through the bill of sale in anguish and frustration, the edge of the paper cut deeply into the pad of my right thumb. At first I didn't even notice, distracted by The Mystery Machine as it screeched into a fatal rollover accident inches to my left. Thelma screamed as it exploded in a fiery maelstrom of twisted metal, cheesy upholstery and dog parts. Daphne shrieked, and quickly thinking, she pulled her pink scarf over her mouth and nose ... but this aided her little when the VW Van's transmission came back down.
It was then I noticed the mild and uncomfortable prick on my finger. Even as I looked, the horseshoe-shaped outline welled with the red rivulet my very life's blood.
And it was very bloody life's blood.
And red.
Tuesday: X-Box Rehab
That's the last thing I remember. Then the triage unit was shining lights into my pupils and whisking me off to the ambulance. In my agony, I didn't even notice the violent jarring as they wheeled my stretcher over the UPS guy's head.
Poor bastard.
But now I am a mere shell of a man, completely incapable of playing either X-Box or Playstation II. Perhaps I should envy the UPS man. I can't shoot at anything. I just stand there helplessly in the dungeons of Diablo II, vainly trying to hammer out peace accords with the zombies. And everybody knows that zombies are Goddamn deadbeats!
The people here in X-Box Rehab Clinic are very nice, but I can see it in their eyes, in the subtle gestures: they don't have much hope for me. Heavily sedated, it's all I can do to flirt with the nurses. It's hard to flirt in a nightgown that doesn't cover your ass, but necessity is the mother of desperation.
They noticed I was getting pretty quick on that wheelchair, so pretty soon, they were upping my dosage. They started bringing the needle, clearly marked "Rhino" in on a creaking surgical cart. I would think "Cool! They got a Rhino!", and would patiently wait to see such a magnificent creature enter my recovery room. But then somehow the needle ends up in my arm, shoulder -whatever they can happen to hit with that dart gun, and things get kinda fuzzy again.
Goddamn it, what's it take to get some Jello here!?
I managed to palm a few doses: some Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. Luckily, my hot nurse Melody was addicted to Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. When she was changing my bedpan, I offered them to her in exchange for releasing my giant one-eyed purple worm.
I was surprised when they even let me in with that caged beastie ... I think they thought that a pet would have speeded my recovery. But my one-eyed purple worm, once released, burst through the walls of the X-Box Rehab, and trampled most of the facilities before it was finally put down by Sheriff Cassidy with a miraculous shot to the beast's brain. Poor bastard.
But by then, Melody and I had already vanished into the smoke and confusion.
Wednesday: The Chase Ensues
It's exactly midnight, and Melody and I are crossing the City Limits on Interstate 65 South pushing a wheelbarrow full of Lithium, Darvon and Morphine. The Rhino meds are evidently wearing off, because I'm suddenly very self-conscious that:
1)my thumb is mortally wounded, and
B) the hospital gown doesn't cover my ass.
--The latter mitigated by the fact that we were walking against the oncoming traffic.
During small talk I find out that she's a big Great White fan, and was very impressed that they had played at my house. She claimed through full, pouty red lips that nightgowns with no backsides on guys drove her absolutely wild. Excitement mounting, she finally dragged me into the bushes, deciding to show me "just what a freak she really was”.
Soon, there we were in the bushes, her pulling her shoes off. And sure enough, she was a freak indeed.
She had six toes on each foot.
"Wow" I breathed.
I never even saw the red bead of Sheriff Cassidy's laser scope zero in on my ass. Bang! Suddenly Melody throws herself in front of the bullet. Dying, she looks deeply into my eyes and says "I'll always love you!". And then she makes this choking kinda sound, and the creepy six-toed bitch dies right there in my arms.
Yech! Sheriff Cassidy was muddling with the deputy on just exactly how you stuff and mount a six-toed girl when I stole his car. I found that if you touched the doughnuts in a certain order -coconut, double chocolate, long john-I could reprogram the police computer too. (It could also call down a Death Ray from new law enforcement satellite "Justice IV", but I didn't know where Sammy Hagar lived). I put myself down as "nun" and Sheriff Cassidy as "Child Molester at Large". It's a game that's fun for all ages.
So I'm blazing down the road in a police car at 1:30 am, contemplating moodily the strange events of the past few days.
Well, that and thinking how creepy it was to be sitting bare-assed on a seat cushion that Sheriff Cassidy had doubtless dispersed untold numbers of White Castles and Busch farts into. Surely he MUST have had a spare uniform in the car!
Looking around, that's when I spotted PEG.
The steel box had holes in the top, and chains over the hinged doors which were clearly marked "PEG". I recognized it instantly. This was a specially-trained new military experiment: attack possums. This just wasn't any average garden-variety bullshit possum either; she was the model 6800, fully equipped with a rocket launcher and a super-secret stealth pouch on her belly (which I heard was developed by the CIA). Beside PEG was a small baggie marked "UPS GUY REMAINS".
PEG was a sly one too. All through the trip, she moaned and grunted for me to let her out. She wagged her tail and tossed a stick playfully. She whined, and licked my hand. The little tramp even offered to drive. But it was just me, lost in thought, blowing down I-65, foot to the floor in a stolen police car. With no pants.
"Dammit," I thought. "I want my goddamn pants!" so I screeched into a U-turn, and blazed directly back at the giant one-eyed purple worm corpse, nestled peacefully amongst the wreckage of what was once the X-Box Rehabilitation Facilities, on the horizon.
I don't know why I developed such a curiosity over "Spike Strips" that night. I certainly never should have begun messing with them in the front seat while PEG was driving 124 miles an hour, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. I've never seen a car actually explode before. It was kinda anticlimactic. Feul, steel, chrome, plastic, White Castle and Busch farts all just kinda Fffffoomph!
But I got it on video.
Thursday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
Your satellite is blocking my driveway. Again. Please have it moved in 48 hours, or I'll have it towed and crushed into a cube. Either that, or sell it on Ebay.
Thank you,
LOBO
Friday: Obligatory Nude Scene [Screenplay Version]
As predicted, the presence of a NASA satellite in my driveway has made the Venusians very nervous. Silly really ... the Cryps left the thing on cinder blocks three days ago. Still, I've seen the movie "Signs", so I'm stowing up Super-Soakers (while the Cryps aren't exactly model houseguests, at least they leave their shoes on when they walk on the carpet. Those Venusians leave snail-trails on EVERYTHING).
The peace talks continue. G Q P Doll, the Cryps' fourth Chief Negotiator, wants them to deal only on streets not currently "occupied" by the Cryps; unfortunately, that rules out most of the Earth except Singapore, Uruguay, and ever-shrinking portions of Antarctica.
The Venusians, on the other hand, having no idea what "dealing" exactly is, seem content having eaten the Cryps' first three Chief Negotiators.
For now.
The Cryps, it turns out, have not wasted all those years of complete law enforcement autonomy ... they had invented some pretty cool technology. It turns out that The Bloods had infiltrated Area 51 in '99, but Sugar Juice's bitch-assed-ho ran to the Cryps' after getting dissed at a pool party by Biggie Smalls via an Olympic sized Oijia diving board. She had intra-dimensional technology, 60,000 plasma rifles, enormous breasts, and a half dozen Krispy Kremes back at the crib.
So by this time, the Cryps had a interstellar cruiser and two blockade runners that could do the Kessel Run in -oops, they're already done-and 120,000 shares in Krispy Kremes as to finance their Galactic Empire.
More after I get coffee.
Saturday: Cheap Styrofoam Cups
I don't MIND being the token white guy on the Earth Pimp IV, but I DO mind wearing the red uniform. Using my "Stuff the Senior Science Officer Out of a Handy Porthole Without Messing Up His Uniform" ninja moves, (Curse you, Sensei Hector Gurerez Montero Phillipe Guada Lupe Von Dotson. May you rot with the rest! There can be only one!) I gained access to the Bridge.
Then, using my elevated security clearance, I demanded that a kickass uniform be designed for me, while drinking a Krispy Kreme latte. You know, "multitasking". This uniform had to be somewhere between "Han Solo" and Sting in that Dune movie. But it had to have a black cape too. And give me X-Ray vision.
Suddenly, I distorted the shiny Flange Reactant Capacitor in such a way that the glowing blue nuclear Whim-Jam flipped on the spiffy Sub-Entropic Whatsit generator couplers. (Well that's what they told me spilling my latte all over the dashboard did.) The Goddamn drink was like six bucks, and this engineering punk bumped into me in a rush to fix some stupid thing clearly labeled 'massive oxygen leak' or something. I ordered the self-important little asshole executed on the spot.
Now the Goddamn Bridge stinks of barbequed engineer. My eyes burn, but I can't tell if it's the smoke or my X-Ray vision kicking in. Just as I demand somebody vacuum up all the floating dust, the Venusians broke our flank, targeted the Inertial Compensators, and BOOM! We're spinning helplessly into the Godless void of space ...
I fucking hate when this happens.
Sunday: A Letter
Dear NASA,
SOS
No, I don't know anything about a missing UPS guy. But do you have any idea how to get latte out of a Flange Reactant Capacitor? Or maybe how to get engineer dust out of an Inertial Compensator?
Mayday. Mayday.
... Uh, no ... that's 'Latte' ... "L-A-T-T-E" ... Fuck! What are you NASA people, BARBARIANS!?
Monday: The Last Time I Even Thought of This "Science" Stuff, I Had an Evil Kenevil Lunchbox
Our distress signal was ignored. NASA was too preoccupied with the insidious wedding J-Lo and Ben Affleck. People were starting to suspect I wasn't the Science Officer too.
I thought maybe a caped Spandex uniform without ass cheeks might not be conservative enough. But the real giveaway was at breakfast when I opened my milk carton from the wrong side. God how embarrassing.
Luckily, the ship had a public library ... I could check out space porn while people thought I was researching "physics", "math", or some silly other thing. I made up "The Callistaplastic Y-Ray Dymicrophoric Theory" so people would stop bugging me with science questions. I mean, first of all, you would have to pronounce it properly. Then finally, after days of prying, I might finally admit that "Being subjected to these 'Y' rays might make your parents retroactively prone to promiscuity, dysfunction, bad budgeting and tastelessness."
No one ever asks about the theory twice.
Tuesday: Boring.
Today was just as dull as ever. I wish I had something interesting to write about.
… Maybe tomorrow
Wednesday: So I Meet This Space Chick
It took like all of five seconds to start getting Space SPAM. But from the SPAM, I could tell that the rest of the known universe is also dominated by the female. It's fairly elementary ... I deduced that if SPAM requests to "Enlarge Your Penis Twice the Size!", it's female dominated. If it says "Shrink Her Vagina Now!", it's male. Case closed.
But then this hologram cuts in and this tall, beautiful woman in a tiny latex outfit exclaims "Help me!," she pleads, chin quivering. One of her tears drips onto her tanned chest. Rather than rolling down to hang tantalizingly from a latex-covered nipple like a drop of heroin from a hypo tip, it disappeared between her sweaty, heaving breasts with a faintly audible steamy hiss. A damsel in distress!, I thought. And a freakin HOT damsel, with sweaty, heaving space breasts. I'll go you one further: she's a rich, scantily-clad princess, and desperately in need of rescue from a handsome brave hero type guy! And did I mention the space breasts!?
Offhand I couldn't think of a handsome brave hero type guy I could hire. But this poor helpless woman, caught adrift in the raging wake of cruel Cosmic Destiny ... armed only with her fierce, feminine courage, savage determination, and sweating, heaving space breasts ... I knew it was destiny.
Thank God the rare "can-do" kind of guy like me showed up.
The crew tried to talk me out of it, too. They tried giving me an android pleasure servant named Tulsa v1.1 who was drop-dead gorgeous, kind, unassuming, faithful, intelligent, well-versed in Van Halen music, free-spirited and bisexual, a gymnast and contortionist, an excellent cook --and a while a formidable 10th degree black belt bodyguard at the same time was as gentle as a fragrant prairie breeze. And she would never gain weight, have a period, be insecure or jealous, or age a day. She even came with a 100-year warranty never to have a headache, ask if she looked fat, if I thought another woman was pretty, or about my 'feelings'.
She was great. I really regretted jettisoning her into space. But when I found out you had to change her battery every seventeen to twenty years, I wasn't sure I was up to the commitment. I mean she was just too needy for me. The princess, on the other hand, was aloof, unattainable, moody, rude, boorish, and didn't have enough mental voltage operating to jump start a mouse trap. I was crazy about her. But space communication is regulated in a strange, alien way; to get the coordinates to rescue her, I evidently had to have a VISA. Where am I supposed to steal a VISA out here? The even rejected my final offer: 1000 hours of America Online internet service.
I wish I knew all this before I vaporized that engineer.
Poor Bastard.
Thursday: The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex
Okay, great. Now everybody is pissed at me. ME! All I did was lift a VISA off of my Assistant Chief Science Officer.
Like it was my fault. Come on ... he was obviously leaving it out to tempt me; there it was, staring me in the face every second I was rifling through his wallet, which was tucked in a sock under his dresser in a secret storage unit that could only be accessed by a short spacewalk on the underside of the ship.
Now, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Editor of this web page is complaining about my BLOG via email. Evidently, she doesn't believe a word of my experience a the X-Box clinic, the UPS conspiracy for my murder, me being Chief Science Officer of Earth Pimp IV ... She's like trying to operate this serious art page about serious artist doing serious art. So I figure I owe that to her and the literary-type readers. So for you poetry fans, here's a Haiku I wrote:
He tried to combine two unlike exponents
And then adding radicals without the same index
What a moron
Okay. Anyway. So there we are hurdling through space, helplessly outnumbered, and demanding the surrender of the Princess …
Mother Night
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
Friday
Flounder
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
[LOBO]
The problem with being such an attractive and desirable catch to the opposite sex is that chicks can, upon occasion, be overly aggressive. And the stocky ones wearing combat boots and flannel can be deceptively fast runners too!
Worse, the ingenious six-foot tall disguise that President Bush’s gardener provided me proved highly impractical when fleeing in terror of losing my obviously-endangered chastity; while running as hard and fast as I could, every time I turn, I see nothing but bared teeth framed by a spiky bamboo-addled mullet, pressed tight against scalp by virtue of sheer aerodynamic force.
She’s gaining on me.
Panting, sweating and trailing broken bamboo shoots and leaves, I slam the door to Ethan’s office, and press my back against it.
Sitting in front of Ethan’s desk were both Mr Insanity and Sapphire. And while fresh and rested-looking from their long Winter Break, they looked a little pissed about something.
“Hi guys!” I says excitedly, still out of breath.
Everybody just stares at me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
Someone starts banging on the door behind me.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” says Mr Insanity.
Even as I press backward, I can feel the door starting to give. “No,” I says. “There’s no problem. What makes you think there’s a problem?”
“Well,” says Ethan smiling. “I was just telling Seth and Sapphire how you were filling in for them over the past few months.”
Desperately holding the door back, I manage a grin over a muffled cursing and a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of cracking oak. “Really, there’s no need to thank me right now.”
“Thank you?” says Mr. Insanity. “You told everyone I was dead!”
“Maybe,” I says. My planted feet are starting to slide over the carpet as the splintering door inches forward.
“Oh that’s nothing,” laughs Ethan. “Wait’ll you here about what he wrote about Sapphire.”
Wednesday
Bamboo
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
[LOBO]
“Sir,” asks the lady behind the Democratic Headquarters desk, “May I help you?”
I say nothing.
“Sir,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “I’m going to call Security. Why exactly are you hiding in the corner dressed like a shrub?”
Thinking quickly, I says, “I’m a Bamboo.”
“I saw you getting off of the elevator.”
A pause.
I tilt the top of the tree forward, leaning into her confidingly, “I really doubt that.”
“I’m calling Security,” she says finally.
“On a Bamboo plant explicitly not trying to gain sensitive information for the Republican party?”
She looks at me sternly.
“That’s a very nice Mullet, by the way.”
“Pig!” she screams while blowing the air horn, punctuated occasionally by her silver whistle.
“No!” I scream reassuringly at the Godless whore. “Bamboo!”
Tuesday
Landscaping
Predator Press
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Newt shuts the door. “Look, I can’t do this. It’s just too heartless.”
“An he’s cryin like a sissy,” says Bush, wincing. “I told you not to cancel his decoder ring yet!”
“Look,” says Newt. “Everyone makes mistakes. Both Clinton and Bush admitted to some rather nefarious ‘youthful indiscretions'. The media went nuts.“
“Ooo, I love stories!" says Bush. "Then what happened?”
“What we’re gonna do,” says Rush, “is ask him to be a spy Democrat.”
“We wouldn't even have to wait for Jesus to kill him," exclaims Bush. "That’s geniusness!”
“We could even make him report to somebody,” gloats Newt.
“I vote my gardener,” says Rush, raising his hand.
“Aw,” complains Bush. “Your gardener is already handling Social Security. It’s my turn to have a kewl gardener.”
Monday
Night in the Ruts
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
[LOBO]
The blindfold comes off, and I’m sitting in a small room.
Around me –left to right-- is Newt Gingrich, Rush Limbaugh, and President George Bush.
“Word up, homie!” I says to Bush, who artfully avoids my conspicuous 'High Five'.
“LOBO,” says Newt. “We have to talk. In your first week as a Republican, you’ve enraged senior citizens, published smutty innuendoes, and insulted maybe every religion on the face of the Earth.”
I look around, and I can read it in their eyes.
I’m being kicked out.
“Look,” says Rush, puffing a stogie. “Not everyone is cut out to be a Republican. We think you should join the Democratic Party." He taps his ash, "We've already cancelled your decoder ring."
I'm Sorry
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
[LOBO]
All you cranky seniors sending me hate mail and downing me in the blog ratings because you were offended by that last post should probably "cool your jets" for a minute.
Firstly, this is an adult site. This sophomoric humor, while brilliant and intrinsically vital to Humankind as a whole, should under no circumstances ever be viewed by children or cranky old bastards like you.
But on a personal level – thereby infinitely more important-- anyone that reads this blog for any length of time knows that no one in it gets spoofed harder than me.
Period.
So what can I say to all that, other than I only hope your sorry, miserable mirthlessness will one day soon be extinguished in a swift and merciful way?
I, conversely, choose laughter.
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