[LOBO]
at those mighty pythons?
Tuesday
Only You
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“I’m not seeing you on the list,” squawked the voice over the gate radio.
With the heat flowing into the open window of the car, I stared at the large iron gates with mixed emotion about the delay. Turning my attention to the clipboard on the passenger seat, I flip a page.
“That’s not unusual given the nature of the visit,” I explain. “I’m a PMS Pal. Is Antonio working? He is my contact.”
“One moment please.”
Restless, I check the gauges on the car. I’m driving a refurbished late model BMW -a car determined to not “stand out” in the neighborhood- previously used for undercover police work. And indeed it was pretty, but from the inside it was easy to tell how abused it was: the leather seats were torn, the carpet had numerous cigarette burns. But my immediate concern was the rising engine temperature; idling at the opulent security gate with the air conditioner blasting was going to be an issue if it continued much longer.
After several minutes, a rhythmic beeping droned and the gate slowly slid open.
“Please proceed to the delivery entrance,” a voice -different from the first- said in animated amusement.
“Thank you,” I said.
I’ve never actually been on these grounds before, but about a quarter of a mile down the drive a sign articulated the winding delivery detour of the palatial estate; this narrow road wound me to the back of the mansion to a small row of currently-unoccupied loading docks. A black man dressed in an immaculate white chef’s uniform grinned and pointed to some parking spots where I limped the languishing car to a stop.
I grabbed the clipboard and stepped out. Immediately I could smell the overworking car engine, and faint plumes of white smoke could be seen whipping under a barely-existent hot breeze.
“Antonio, I presume?” I says, offering my hand.
The man beamed a huge, blinding grin, and crushed my hand under his grip. “Your timing couldn't be better,” he offered in a thick Jamaican accent. “Mrs. Worthington is under the impression she is dining with the governor, and getting ready as we speak.”
Pressing a button on my keychain the trunk opens silently, and I examine the trunk contents. Wooden katanas, flash grenades, rubber clubs.
-Tools of the trade.
Familiar somewhat with Worthington, I forsake all except a well-worn large suitcase. Grunting as I extract the heavy bag, and close the trunk. “So where can I get ready?”
“Right this way,” says Antonio. “Mrs. Worthington is as prompt as she is meticulous. I think you have about fifteen or twenty minutes before she finishes her bath. My recommendation would be to wait for her in her bedroom.”
Most American clients, modest, would never allow this. But Worthington -Europian- had signed virtually ever waiver we had; she didn’t have any hangups about being caught in circumstances like that.
-But if you take my profession in an altruistic sense, this is the best way to do it.
“PMS Consultants sent a different guy last month,” said Antonio, making small talk. A wall of refreshing cool air washed over me as we entered the building.
“Yeah,” I says, making note of doors and windows -potential emergency escapes- as we wind through the massive house. “W-," I pause. "Mrs. Worthington broke my clavicle last time.”
“Ah.”
“She’s tough,” I says. “Isn’t she an aerospace engineer or something?”
“Yes,” Antonio confirmed. “But she spends all her free time studying martial arts, playing tennis … she is very-” he paused, choosing his words. “Fit,” he concluded. We started up a large and ornate circular stairwell. “What brings a man like yourself into such work?”
“Terms of my parole,” I reply. “A few years ago I got a judge to consider this part of my community service. I‘ve been with PMSP ever since.”
Antonio swung a set of double doors open. “This is the master bedroom,” he explained. “That,” he pointed, “is the door to her bathroom. She should be emerging from there in ten minutes or so.”
I haul the suitcase into the room and lay it on the floor. “Thank you,” I says, unzipping the main compartment.
Sensing a good moment, Antonio withdrew a small radio from his pocket. “This is Antonio. Please evacuate the premises. Code Sixteen.”
Antonio’s radio squawked. "Antonio, please confirm. Code Sixteen?"
“Affirmative,“ he replied. “Code Sixteen.” Then, to me, “Do you require further assistance?”
“Well, yeah,” I says. I flip open the case to the smell of perspiration, rubber, and Kevlar. I have formulated a possible surprise attack plan: hanging from the high lighting fixtures, and dropping on Worthington as she crosses under -so in addition to the standard protective gear, I dig for spools of cable, hasps, and hooks. “If you don’t mind, some of the gear ties in the back. I can do it myself, but the suit is safer if I put the gloves on before some of the other padding.”
“Not a problem, sir.”
Well practiced, I soon have all twenty-two pounds of rubber gear on. And just in time -we both hear some activity from behind the door. Pulling the final leather straps and buckles tightly behind me, Antonio’s apprehension became somewhat palpable.
“I really must be going now,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No thank you sir,” says Antonio. “Your visits have really changed things around here.”
“One more thing,” I says. “You don’t know where Mrs. Worthington’s purse is, do you?”
Antonio looks puzzled. “No.”
“It’s standard procedure to neutralize the purse in advance when possible. Just in case of mace, pepper sprays, and so forth.”
“I wish I could help you, but-”
“It’s fine,” I shrug, pulling the fitted steel grid mask down over my face. “Off with you now,” I smile, showing my mouthpiece.
“See you next month, sir. Good luck.”
“Indeed,” I says, fist bumping him with my thickly-padded glove.
Once the master bedroom doors clicked closed in Antonio’s exit, I ponder my circumstances further. I could, for instance, hide behind the drapes-
Suddenly, the bathroom door flung wide.
-And Worthington entered.
Worthington, an attractive, curvy woman in her early thirties stood about 5’8”, three inches of which were high heels. Freshly “made up” and in a smart-looking red suit coat, she entered the bedroom a full three steps before she spotted me and froze.
Her purse, a small pocketbook hanging by a spaghetti strap, hung on her shoulder.
“You!” she snarled through lipstick-reddened lips.
So much for the element of surprise, I thought. Still hoping to catch her off-balance I rushed at her, the now-useless climbing hasps and hooks clanked noisily as I charged. And it worked with some success: I got three quick jabs in -each rendered impotent my unwieldy armor alone- and her small face disappeared each time behind the comically large gloves. The first punch changed her face to shock and smeared makeup. The second, her eyebrows furrowed in steely determination.
-The third, crazed and unabashed rage.
Both her hands dove into the tiny purse, but I knocked it away. This preoccupation was not without price however, and her foot -now high-heel free, crashed solidly across my temple. Padding or no, I can’t take much of that, I thought. This bitch kicks like a mule. Off-balance, I reeled as she delivered a series of vicious blows -any one of which would have been crippling without the protective gear. I tumbled noisily through the splintered bedroom double-doors and into the hallway.
Wobbling quickly to my feet, for an instant I thought maybe it was over -but then I heard a blood-curdling shriek the likes of which I will never forget. Fists closed high and protective, muscular legs cut and ready, she padded through the fragments of wood, plastic, and glass and closed the distance between us.
Reflexively, I grabbed at a stone-looking vase. But the gloves betrayed me, and I couldn’t get a grip -all I could do was guide it to a clumsy fall between us, and it shattered. Still, she was barefoot. Perhaps this would buy me a few precious seconds-
Scrambling for footing, I could hear her feet and fists whipping in the air. I whirled and a lucky elbow caught her square in the abdomen mid-somersault, winding her. Holding her awkwardly with a gloved paw, I leaned on her with all my weight in effort to force her into submission. It was then I felt a strange popping sensation in my neck -Mrs. Worthington had taken a shard of the vase, worked it over my shoulder pads and under my helmet
-and was slicing through the padding to my throat.
In a desperate flail that would have made my Sensei laugh, I swung wildly. Worse, I think I screamed. My helmet, mask, and shoulder pads, now unsecured, fell away -and in a strange moment of quiet confusion I realized I no longer had her in my grasp.
In fact, I had no idea where she was.
The purse! I thought quickly.
Diving back into the bedroom, sure enough there she was, the tiny purse’s contents sprawled all over the bed. A small wallet. Pack of Marlboros. A lighter. A box of Kotex.
-A 38 caliber handgun.
Now guns are strictly off-limits, and an explicit violation of PMSP service terms; pointing my right forearm at the bedroom window, I punch the big red 'PANIC' button on my belt -this is supposed to fire a grappling hook where, in theory, I would swing outside and be lowered to presumed safety.
But instead of the explosive compression of gas required to fire the emergency cable, nothing happens.
I jam the button again.
Nothing.
The C02 tank is ruptured.
Fuck.
Mrs Worthington at this point has the .38 in hand, and is fumbling for the safety. With no other recourse I crashed into her full-force like a giant two hundred pound rubber grizzly bear -the petite woman went sprawling, the handgun spinning off into the corner of the room. Everything seemed in slow motion as I clawed for purchase on the carpeting to the weapon. And indeed I got to it first, but with the gloves all I could do was fumble at it. Worthington issued another shriek, and the end table for the massive bed -oak, I think- came crashing down on my skull. This is followed almost immediately by the sharp crack of one of the heavy television armoire doors swung open against my head, once, twice ... the third time a hinge broke, and it dangled twisted and unservicable. I don't know what the next thing was -a DVD player or a large clock radio- but it hurt like hell and blinded me in a shower of sparks on impact.
It was at this point the emergency cable -with the CO2 tank I errantly thought ruptured- engaged and the grappling hook fired, wrapping tightly around a peg on a huge bookshelf. Small, powerful motors engaged automatically, and I felt myself helplessly dragged backwards, deeper into the bedroom. Worse, one of my useless climbing hooks has snagged on the armoire; slowly pulled in the opposite direction by the steel cable, I twist and thrash helplessly as I'm slowly lifted off the floor. I hear a wooden creaking sound, the unmistakable groans and cracks of heavy wood under enormous stress. My eyes follow the cable -my arm pulled excruciatingly toward where the grappling hook attached- to see that the top of the bookshelf, a few feet away, has begun to tilt precariously toward me.
But now my experience and advance planning finally paid off. Fearing a circumstance such as this -one where my emergency cable could snag and theoretically tear me apart- the motors are programmed to cut out at a certain level of high tension. Still programmed to support my full weight however, I dangled helplessly in the air between the bookshelf and the battered armoire.
The brief surge of professional pride, however modest, was cut short by sounds of frantic activity. Squinting, I look cautiously up to see Worthington, one arm seeking leverage behind the enormous bookshelf.
Oh no, I shake my head.
Oh yes, she nods in furious determination.
After the deafening crash, there's a moment or two I think I lost consciousness -I'm certain I would be dead were I not fortunately pinned under two thousand pounds of Anne Rice hardcovers. Thusly momentarily safe, I began tearing at my gloves with my teeth. Vision blurry, I am only vaguely conscious of the large red stains on them. Is that lipstick? Or is it my blood? Worthington, as if to answer, grunted as she cast the bookshelves aside in adrenaline-fueled effort, and delivered numerous savage kicks to my armored-yet-aching abdomen. Accidentally triggering my emergency belt switch again, the other cable fired and secured itself to the overelaborate baroque bed headboard. Covered in Anne Rice books and bookshelf remnants, I am slowly but inexorably dragged once more.
Attempting again to stand, I caught the edge of the bed in an effort to regain my footing on the treacherous floor -now covered in broken glass and wreckage. Hearing the faint slap, slap, slap, of her bare footsteps approaching I somewhat errantly thought she was closing for another series of bone-crushing blows: anticipating the limited places where she could step without shoes I wheeled again, catching her full weight and throwing her firmly on the bed. It was at that point I heard an all-too-familiar metallic click-click and realized my miscalculation: while her reckless lunge failed, her primary goal was to scoop up the gun en route.
The .38 boomed, and I slumped to searing pain as she thundered the gun empty into my chest and abdomen.
-I was done.
"That was awesome," Mrs. Worthington breathed heavily. "Much better than last month."
“Yeah,” I groaned. “You broke my clavicle in May. They hadda send another guy.”
"Well he was a puss," she panted. Grabbing the Marlboros from the shrapnel-addled floor, she collapsed noisily on the debris-riddled bed next to me. Wincing and waving fruitlessly at the newly-conjured cloud of pale gun smoke and dust she asked, “Cigarette?”
“Sure,” I wheeze. “Thanks.”
She flicked the lighter. “Do you guys wear bullet-proof vests with all your clients?”
“Only you,” I lie.
[LOBO]
-Inspired by Adam Carolla.
“I’m not seeing you on the list,” squawked the voice over the gate radio.
With the heat flowing into the open window of the car, I stared at the large iron gates with mixed emotion about the delay. Turning my attention to the clipboard on the passenger seat, I flip a page.
“That’s not unusual given the nature of the visit,” I explain. “I’m a PMS Pal. Is Antonio working? He is my contact.”
“One moment please.”
Restless, I check the gauges on the car. I’m driving a refurbished late model BMW -a car determined to not “stand out” in the neighborhood- previously used for undercover police work. And indeed it was pretty, but from the inside it was easy to tell how abused it was: the leather seats were torn, the carpet had numerous cigarette burns. But my immediate concern was the rising engine temperature; idling at the opulent security gate with the air conditioner blasting was going to be an issue if it continued much longer.
After several minutes, a rhythmic beeping droned and the gate slowly slid open.
“Please proceed to the delivery entrance,” a voice -different from the first- said in animated amusement.
“Thank you,” I said.
I’ve never actually been on these grounds before, but about a quarter of a mile down the drive a sign articulated the winding delivery detour of the palatial estate; this narrow road wound me to the back of the mansion to a small row of currently-unoccupied loading docks. A black man dressed in an immaculate white chef’s uniform grinned and pointed to some parking spots where I limped the languishing car to a stop.
I grabbed the clipboard and stepped out. Immediately I could smell the overworking car engine, and faint plumes of white smoke could be seen whipping under a barely-existent hot breeze.
“Antonio, I presume?” I says, offering my hand.
The man beamed a huge, blinding grin, and crushed my hand under his grip. “Your timing couldn't be better,” he offered in a thick Jamaican accent. “Mrs. Worthington is under the impression she is dining with the governor, and getting ready as we speak.”
Pressing a button on my keychain the trunk opens silently, and I examine the trunk contents. Wooden katanas, flash grenades, rubber clubs.
-Tools of the trade.
Familiar somewhat with Worthington, I forsake all except a well-worn large suitcase. Grunting as I extract the heavy bag, and close the trunk. “So where can I get ready?”
“Right this way,” says Antonio. “Mrs. Worthington is as prompt as she is meticulous. I think you have about fifteen or twenty minutes before she finishes her bath. My recommendation would be to wait for her in her bedroom.”
Most American clients, modest, would never allow this. But Worthington -Europian- had signed virtually ever waiver we had; she didn’t have any hangups about being caught in circumstances like that.
-But if you take my profession in an altruistic sense, this is the best way to do it.
“PMS Consultants sent a different guy last month,” said Antonio, making small talk. A wall of refreshing cool air washed over me as we entered the building.
“Yeah,” I says, making note of doors and windows -potential emergency escapes- as we wind through the massive house. “W-," I pause. "Mrs. Worthington broke my clavicle last time.”
“Ah.”
“She’s tough,” I says. “Isn’t she an aerospace engineer or something?”
“Yes,” Antonio confirmed. “But she spends all her free time studying martial arts, playing tennis … she is very-” he paused, choosing his words. “Fit,” he concluded. We started up a large and ornate circular stairwell. “What brings a man like yourself into such work?”
“Terms of my parole,” I reply. “A few years ago I got a judge to consider this part of my community service. I‘ve been with PMSP ever since.”
Antonio swung a set of double doors open. “This is the master bedroom,” he explained. “That,” he pointed, “is the door to her bathroom. She should be emerging from there in ten minutes or so.”
I haul the suitcase into the room and lay it on the floor. “Thank you,” I says, unzipping the main compartment.
Sensing a good moment, Antonio withdrew a small radio from his pocket. “This is Antonio. Please evacuate the premises. Code Sixteen.”
Antonio’s radio squawked. "Antonio, please confirm. Code Sixteen?"
“Affirmative,“ he replied. “Code Sixteen.” Then, to me, “Do you require further assistance?”
“Well, yeah,” I says. I flip open the case to the smell of perspiration, rubber, and Kevlar. I have formulated a possible surprise attack plan: hanging from the high lighting fixtures, and dropping on Worthington as she crosses under -so in addition to the standard protective gear, I dig for spools of cable, hasps, and hooks. “If you don’t mind, some of the gear ties in the back. I can do it myself, but the suit is safer if I put the gloves on before some of the other padding.”
“Not a problem, sir.”
Well practiced, I soon have all twenty-two pounds of rubber gear on. And just in time -we both hear some activity from behind the door. Pulling the final leather straps and buckles tightly behind me, Antonio’s apprehension became somewhat palpable.
“I really must be going now,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No thank you sir,” says Antonio. “Your visits have really changed things around here.”
“One more thing,” I says. “You don’t know where Mrs. Worthington’s purse is, do you?”
Antonio looks puzzled. “No.”
“It’s standard procedure to neutralize the purse in advance when possible. Just in case of mace, pepper sprays, and so forth.”
“I wish I could help you, but-”
“It’s fine,” I shrug, pulling the fitted steel grid mask down over my face. “Off with you now,” I smile, showing my mouthpiece.
“See you next month, sir. Good luck.”
“Indeed,” I says, fist bumping him with my thickly-padded glove.
Once the master bedroom doors clicked closed in Antonio’s exit, I ponder my circumstances further. I could, for instance, hide behind the drapes-
Suddenly, the bathroom door flung wide.
-And Worthington entered.
Worthington, an attractive, curvy woman in her early thirties stood about 5’8”, three inches of which were high heels. Freshly “made up” and in a smart-looking red suit coat, she entered the bedroom a full three steps before she spotted me and froze.
Her purse, a small pocketbook hanging by a spaghetti strap, hung on her shoulder.
“You!” she snarled through lipstick-reddened lips.
So much for the element of surprise, I thought. Still hoping to catch her off-balance I rushed at her, the now-useless climbing hasps and hooks clanked noisily as I charged. And it worked with some success: I got three quick jabs in -each rendered impotent my unwieldy armor alone- and her small face disappeared each time behind the comically large gloves. The first punch changed her face to shock and smeared makeup. The second, her eyebrows furrowed in steely determination.
-The third, crazed and unabashed rage.
Both her hands dove into the tiny purse, but I knocked it away. This preoccupation was not without price however, and her foot -now high-heel free, crashed solidly across my temple. Padding or no, I can’t take much of that, I thought. This bitch kicks like a mule. Off-balance, I reeled as she delivered a series of vicious blows -any one of which would have been crippling without the protective gear. I tumbled noisily through the splintered bedroom double-doors and into the hallway.
Wobbling quickly to my feet, for an instant I thought maybe it was over -but then I heard a blood-curdling shriek the likes of which I will never forget. Fists closed high and protective, muscular legs cut and ready, she padded through the fragments of wood, plastic, and glass and closed the distance between us.
Reflexively, I grabbed at a stone-looking vase. But the gloves betrayed me, and I couldn’t get a grip -all I could do was guide it to a clumsy fall between us, and it shattered. Still, she was barefoot. Perhaps this would buy me a few precious seconds-
Scrambling for footing, I could hear her feet and fists whipping in the air. I whirled and a lucky elbow caught her square in the abdomen mid-somersault, winding her. Holding her awkwardly with a gloved paw, I leaned on her with all my weight in effort to force her into submission. It was then I felt a strange popping sensation in my neck -Mrs. Worthington had taken a shard of the vase, worked it over my shoulder pads and under my helmet
-and was slicing through the padding to my throat.
In a desperate flail that would have made my Sensei laugh, I swung wildly. Worse, I think I screamed. My helmet, mask, and shoulder pads, now unsecured, fell away -and in a strange moment of quiet confusion I realized I no longer had her in my grasp.
In fact, I had no idea where she was.
The purse! I thought quickly.
Diving back into the bedroom, sure enough there she was, the tiny purse’s contents sprawled all over the bed. A small wallet. Pack of Marlboros. A lighter. A box of Kotex.
-A 38 caliber handgun.
Now guns are strictly off-limits, and an explicit violation of PMSP service terms; pointing my right forearm at the bedroom window, I punch the big red 'PANIC' button on my belt -this is supposed to fire a grappling hook where, in theory, I would swing outside and be lowered to presumed safety.
But instead of the explosive compression of gas required to fire the emergency cable, nothing happens.
I jam the button again.
Nothing.
The C02 tank is ruptured.
Fuck.
Mrs Worthington at this point has the .38 in hand, and is fumbling for the safety. With no other recourse I crashed into her full-force like a giant two hundred pound rubber grizzly bear -the petite woman went sprawling, the handgun spinning off into the corner of the room. Everything seemed in slow motion as I clawed for purchase on the carpeting to the weapon. And indeed I got to it first, but with the gloves all I could do was fumble at it. Worthington issued another shriek, and the end table for the massive bed -oak, I think- came crashing down on my skull. This is followed almost immediately by the sharp crack of one of the heavy television armoire doors swung open against my head, once, twice ... the third time a hinge broke, and it dangled twisted and unservicable. I don't know what the next thing was -a DVD player or a large clock radio- but it hurt like hell and blinded me in a shower of sparks on impact.
It was at this point the emergency cable -with the CO2 tank I errantly thought ruptured- engaged and the grappling hook fired, wrapping tightly around a peg on a huge bookshelf. Small, powerful motors engaged automatically, and I felt myself helplessly dragged backwards, deeper into the bedroom. Worse, one of my useless climbing hooks has snagged on the armoire; slowly pulled in the opposite direction by the steel cable, I twist and thrash helplessly as I'm slowly lifted off the floor. I hear a wooden creaking sound, the unmistakable groans and cracks of heavy wood under enormous stress. My eyes follow the cable -my arm pulled excruciatingly toward where the grappling hook attached- to see that the top of the bookshelf, a few feet away, has begun to tilt precariously toward me.
But now my experience and advance planning finally paid off. Fearing a circumstance such as this -one where my emergency cable could snag and theoretically tear me apart- the motors are programmed to cut out at a certain level of high tension. Still programmed to support my full weight however, I dangled helplessly in the air between the bookshelf and the battered armoire.
The brief surge of professional pride, however modest, was cut short by sounds of frantic activity. Squinting, I look cautiously up to see Worthington, one arm seeking leverage behind the enormous bookshelf.
Oh no, I shake my head.
Oh yes, she nods in furious determination.
After the deafening crash, there's a moment or two I think I lost consciousness -I'm certain I would be dead were I not fortunately pinned under two thousand pounds of Anne Rice hardcovers. Thusly momentarily safe, I began tearing at my gloves with my teeth. Vision blurry, I am only vaguely conscious of the large red stains on them. Is that lipstick? Or is it my blood? Worthington, as if to answer, grunted as she cast the bookshelves aside in adrenaline-fueled effort, and delivered numerous savage kicks to my armored-yet-aching abdomen. Accidentally triggering my emergency belt switch again, the other cable fired and secured itself to the overelaborate baroque bed headboard. Covered in Anne Rice books and bookshelf remnants, I am slowly but inexorably dragged once more.
Attempting again to stand, I caught the edge of the bed in an effort to regain my footing on the treacherous floor -now covered in broken glass and wreckage. Hearing the faint slap, slap, slap, of her bare footsteps approaching I somewhat errantly thought she was closing for another series of bone-crushing blows: anticipating the limited places where she could step without shoes I wheeled again, catching her full weight and throwing her firmly on the bed. It was at that point I heard an all-too-familiar metallic click-click and realized my miscalculation: while her reckless lunge failed, her primary goal was to scoop up the gun en route.
The .38 boomed, and I slumped to searing pain as she thundered the gun empty into my chest and abdomen.
-I was done.
"That was awesome," Mrs. Worthington breathed heavily. "Much better than last month."
“Yeah,” I groaned. “You broke my clavicle in May. They hadda send another guy.”
"Well he was a puss," she panted. Grabbing the Marlboros from the shrapnel-addled floor, she collapsed noisily on the debris-riddled bed next to me. Wincing and waving fruitlessly at the newly-conjured cloud of pale gun smoke and dust she asked, “Cigarette?”
“Sure,” I wheeze. “Thanks.”
She flicked the lighter. “Do you guys wear bullet-proof vests with all your clients?”
“Only you,” I lie.
Saturday
Raving Private Ryan
[LOBO]
With recent back surgery, a broken ankle, a broken foot and a broken wrist, an act like bathing can become deceptively complex -sometimes leaving me in various states of undress for up to an hour. And our bedroom -the 'Master'- is in the deepest recesses of the house, with little likelihood for random crazy crap to somehow waft up.
So what is it with Californians and busting open closed doors? At any hour of the day, I shut the door and the goddamn thing bursts open -without a knock or warning- within minutes. I’ve bitched and moaned about this for years already, but I am so frustrated at this point: is Richard Dawson hiding out somewhere downstairs making these people think it’s an episode of The Price is Right? Please take your lovely array of kitchen appliances and Rice-a-Roni parting gifts, and leave Door Number One alone. I’ll bet if I floated a closed horizontal door and frame in the middle of some uncharted frozen sea, hundreds of Californians would somehow drown. [Believe it or not, my stepdaughter did it as I was drafting this.]
Is a courtesy knock really too much to ask anyone? Or after all these years of complaining, wouldn’t one consider doing an act so simple -rational or not- just to avoid the inevitable subsequent spectacle? At this point, I’m starting to feel I’m just being needlessly provoked.Do any of you adult couples -parents, specifically- have this kind of liberal “open door” policy in your homes? My [step] kids' ages range from 8, 17, and 21, and all have friends and guests that have similar mileage. Terri’s case is “I’ve never had closed doors in my family.” Well that's nice and quaint and all, but let's be realistic Laura Ingalls: these are mostly young adults that I’ve only known for a few years.
-Wouldn’t it be creepy if I wasn't concerned about this?
Friday
Safety First
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I want to go downstairs and get another beer, but I'm utterly wasted on Percocet.
-And my test Slinky just burst into flames.
Thursday
Cosmetology School CPR Dummy Stolen, Large Cash Reward Offered
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Missing device smells vaguely of nail polish, Paul
Mitchell products, and defibrillator burns.
[LOBO]
Missing device smells vaguely of nail polish, Paul
Mitchell products, and defibrillator burns.
Monday
Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.
“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, the VIIb, the IX.2, numerous undocumented models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four bicycles.
Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”
Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”
Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous, however. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”
Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”
After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.
Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.
-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.
[LOBO]Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.
“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, the VIIb, the IX.2, numerous undocumented models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four bicycles.
Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”
Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”
Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous, however. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?” Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”
After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes. Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.
-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.
Sunday
The Envelope Pushes Back
or, "Wildfire Nightmare Intensifies as Experts Suspect Arizona Somewhere in US"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
With one of possibly two surgeries out of the way and three broken bones, I have joked that I am God’s football due to the stitches. But through perseverance, I’ve got my mobility back up to about 75% within a month.
Which is good. Maybe I can retire the crutch. And I can wear shoes on both feet now, so I don’t ruin a sock every time I wobble around the block. Consequently I can worry less about the occasional broken glass shard or poisoned ninja throwing star being launched through my vulnerable heel in the middle of an intersection. (The broken glass thing happens at least twice as many times as the ninja thing: today's ninja is just not what it used to be.)
But because I kinda look healthy (I cut my wrist cast off yesterday too), I’m confusing people: a random spasm might find me inexplicably offering counter-crossing pedestrians the look a cow gives you as you pull up to a fine steak restaurant. Cops, misinterpreting my tender pain-addled gait, circle constantly suspecting I am drunk ... or maybe tryin to protect me from a mullet-sporting vintage Camaro driver with a glove box full of Viagra, roofies, and rolls and rolls of duct tape.
Either way I'm compelled to admit I am completely toxic with pain medications. Prior to the back surgery, I shrewdly purchased a handful of used PS2 and Xbox games for my convalescing amusement. Currently I have no idea where they are.
For all I know, I might have buried them in the back yard.
Predator Press
[LOBO]With one of possibly two surgeries out of the way and three broken bones, I have joked that I am God’s football due to the stitches. But through perseverance, I’ve got my mobility back up to about 75% within a month.
Which is good. Maybe I can retire the crutch. And I can wear shoes on both feet now, so I don’t ruin a sock every time I wobble around the block. Consequently I can worry less about the occasional broken glass shard or poisoned ninja throwing star being launched through my vulnerable heel in the middle of an intersection. (The broken glass thing happens at least twice as many times as the ninja thing: today's ninja is just not what it used to be.)
But because I kinda look healthy (I cut my wrist cast off yesterday too), I’m confusing people: a random spasm might find me inexplicably offering counter-crossing pedestrians the look a cow gives you as you pull up to a fine steak restaurant. Cops, misinterpreting my tender pain-addled gait, circle constantly suspecting I am drunk ... or maybe tryin to protect me from a mullet-sporting vintage Camaro driver with a glove box full of Viagra, roofies, and rolls and rolls of duct tape.
Either way I'm compelled to admit I am completely toxic with pain medications. Prior to the back surgery, I shrewdly purchased a handful of used PS2 and Xbox games for my convalescing amusement. Currently I have no idea where they are.For all I know, I might have buried them in the back yard.
Saturday
Not-So-Fast Food
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Someone left a slice of Pizza Hut in the sink, neglecting to jam it down into the garbage disposal.
-This brought about the rather alarming observation that the thing is so greasy it doesn’t take on water. I mean if it wasn’t boyant, I think it would make a good cork.
Or maybe a space shuttle tile.
[LOBO]Someone left a slice of Pizza Hut in the sink, neglecting to jam it down into the garbage disposal.
-This brought about the rather alarming observation that the thing is so greasy it doesn’t take on water. I mean if it wasn’t boyant, I think it would make a good cork.
Or maybe a space shuttle tile.
Wednesday
Monday
Predator Press Exclusive: Athlete Kim Kardashian Denies Sleeping With Identified
Predator Press [LOBO]
The United States population is 307,006,550.
-I know this because I keep a complete and meticulously cared for list -”The Most Talented Celebrities in America”- where I categorize us all in order. The top of The List (Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, …) typically remains pretty stable. Most of the “action,” on the other hand, takes place in the middle and at the bottom.
In 1996, Herbert Khaury -better know as Tiny Tim, and for his rendition of “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”- suddenly died, and a huge talent vacuum ensued.Enter NFL player Bret Lockett.
See, Brett had a good idea initially. Once you crack The List, with some shrewd maneuvering you might be seducing the middle in no time -the likes of Dane Cook and Whoopie Goldberg. And after such an unprecedented quantum leap, Lockett would be within striking distance of the Ric Flairs, Kathy Lee Giffords, and the guy that does the ’Jack’ voiceovers for the Jack in the Box fast food franchise -arguably in the low eight digits, and the upper two-fifths of The List's hierarchy. By playing his cards right, Bret Lockett could have been banging Tom Hanks, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham Carter in no time.
So you see, Bret Lockett needed to crack The List.Bad.
The bottom three people on The List are my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz [307,006,548], Paris Hilton [307,006,549], and Kim Kardashian [307,006,550]. (Paris Hilton nudged out Kim K mostly because I am an animal lover: Hilton has one of those little teacup dogs, and I figured with no one under her Paris might become a suicide risk and that little dog would be totally fucked. Kim K would eventually follow suit with her own little teacup dog, but I already cited that advantage to Hilton who had the idea first.)
So Bret Lockett has to decide, right?
Well it turns out that my fourth grade Physical Education teacher Coach Berkowitz would be difficult to reach: he had just retired, and was touring the southwest in a Winnebago. For Lockett, this fact alone might not have been convincing when staring down the Hilton/Kardashian barrel … But one must keep in mind that Coach Berkowitz is a very hairy individual; Bret Lockett’s alcohol consumption may not be where it need be to go through with the dirty deed.
Anyway, Kim K denies the whole thing. And this is as cruel to Lockett as it is dumb for Kardashian, because Lockett must now come forth with sordid, intimate details about Kardashian that only another lover would know … thusly doomed with an impossible task and helpless against his own unbridled ambition, Bret Lockett would inevitably become the only victim here.-But you know the more I think about it, the more I can’t figure out why he didn’t go with Coach Berkowitz.
the ideas, beliefs, and opinions of the author.
Sunday
Diary of a Scapegoat Herder
[LOBO]
I had a feeling I shouldn’t have used the orphanage’s food budget for a line of credit in Vegas.
-But we're in the middle of an unexplained recession. And did you ever think maybe this was a better country when addled with snortable cocaine, fun-loving alcoholics, unbridled sexual harassment, and wave after endless wave of citizens suffering from yet-undiagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder? I'm not letting the Rainbow Coalition off the hook either: it seems like as soon as the world got gay people -the 1990s or so- pow, the entire damn nation went into the crapper.
As far as the orphan food, don't give me some 'Holier 'n Thou' crap: I should first point out that the imitation gruel is really popular. Christ it’s not like I’m making them eat ‘Grape Nuts,’ right? And speaking of horrible crap, people are forced to hang out with Sally Struthers starving to death in other countries -meanwhile you people eat a bran yogurt tofu muffin only to purposely burn it off on a treadmill later while watching Jersey Shore.And again speaking of horrible crap, what is the fascination with Jersey Shore? Those people look like the CPR dummies at a cosmetology school. (No, I am not a cosmetologist. But if something is going to enable me to give Martians mudpacks and facials, it ain't going to be the goddamn Russian space program. Those people don't even make a car.)
-And I defy you to find any orphan taste whatsoever.
Tuesday
One Man Flash Mob
Predator Press
The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.
Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.
In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well, serene.
“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.
Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.
“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip and a Blood.”
“You’ve only been in here two hours.”
“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"
Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.
“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”
“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.
“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”
“Well then how would you-?”
“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”
Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.
“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.
“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”
“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”
-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”
Silence.
“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”
"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”
The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.
“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”
“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”
“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”
“Ever had Grape Nuts?”
“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."
“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”
“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”
“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”
“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”
“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.
“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”
The guard completed a complex-seeming series of transactions with a set of keys, and the heavy doors slid back open; the armored elevator seemed to have moved at all, but the dungeon-like quality of the new floor was immediate and palpable.Flandsa Ha’asasanba -familiar somewhat with the cellblock for his own reasons- proceeded to cellblock 'I' -ironically the location of LOBO's 'POD'- without an expected direction request.
In the center of a checkerboarded lancing of light, LOBO, in an orange jumpsuit, sat on a cot facing the opposite wall. He was not the pensive animal Flandsa was expecting. He seemed, well, serene.
“Flandsa Ha’asasanba,” said LOBO in a cool voice that unnerved Flandsa. Rubbing his wooly, unkempt facial growth in thought, LOBO didn’t turn to address him, but as Flandsa grew closer, he could see LOBO’s face -it was covered in a macabre splash of dripping red.
Flandsa stopped at the sliding cell door and steeled himself for anything. “I don’t know why I would be surprised to see you in here,” he joked.
“Yes,” LOBO replied coolly. He rose, slightly wobbly from the crutch, and made his way to his visitor. “I’m a con now. A hardened, dangerous man. Did you know I converted to Islam? I‘m also a Crip and a Blood.”
“You’ve only been in here two hours.”“Two hours is plenty of time to get yourself killed when you’re on this side of the law,” whispered LOBO with authority. "Respect is everything in here. And do you know the best way to get the respect you need to survive when doing Hard Time?"
Flandsa shrugged patiently. LOBO was moving poorly, and only now arriving to lean on the cellbars.
“You have to make a name for yourself," said LOBO, squinting painfully. Fully in the sharp wedge of light, his eyes dialated wildly. "You have to pick out the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in your POD and rape him.”
“You mean fight him,” Flandsa corrected helpfully.
“Fight him? Shit. Have you seen the biggest, meanest, toughest, ugliest guy in my POD? He’d kill me.”
“Well then how would you-?”
“I was thinking roofies or something. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” LOBO admitted. “Not to mention I don’t think I’ve ever even been drunk enough to rape a guy. I mean I guess I just close my eyes and pretend it’s Sarah Palin.”
Brief shuffles of movement. From various directions just out of the stale, flickering overhead lights over Flandsa. The loneliness of this conversation is wholly illusion.
“What happened to your face?” Flandsa asked, changing the subject.
“It’s these fucking ketchup packets. They’re complicated enough as it is, but the lighting in here is terrible.”
“Why didn't you bail out?” Flandsa inquired. “It’s only six dollars.”
-Nervous, illusive titters spring like lightning bolts. LOBO, noticing, starts seeking them out. Speaking unnecessarily loudly, he asks, “So my boy, did you bring me the Viagra and rolls of duct tape I asked for?”
Silence.
“Yeah well, it’s been long enough. Post Cereal has agreed to drop all charges if you promise to-”
"Only now, too late, does Big Cereal realize it has wakened a sleeping giant," LOBO snarled. “I don’t negotiate with Big Cereal. Especially now that the juggernaut has rumbled to life. Their oppresive rule is coming to an end.”
The pause that ensued was punctuated dramatically by a fart from someone sleeping to Flandsa's left.
“But you have a broken ankle and boken wrist," Flandsa implored. "Don’t you want some medical attention? Some painkillers?”
“The pain merely helps burn in the memory,” LOBO scoffed proudly. “The memory of the beginning of the overthrow of Big Cereal. And we won‘t need painkillers in a post-Post world. With real food, our bones will be nigh indestructible.”
“You think Post Cereal is poisoning you?”
“Ever had Grape Nuts?”
“Well-” Flandsa stammered. “Yeah."
“I have no idea what that crap is either,” LOBO explained. “But I can tell you you would be hard pressed to find a grape or a nut in it. And it tastes like the spackle for holes in Noah’s Ark.”“I think you’re supposed to add sugar and stuff-”
“Add stuff? Isn’t it pretty much a box of added stuff already?” LOBO is incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? Well the Middle Ages are over buddy. I‘m ending this Middle Age just like Paul Revere ended the last one.”
“LOBO, the Sheriff has asked me to ask you to leave. They can’t keep you without some kind of reason.”
“Participate in a cover up? And end the Revolution? Never!” But after a thoughtful surveillance of his cell, LOBO relented.
“Only if they let me redo my mug shot.”
Sunday
What The Hell Is Wrong With You, MicroSoft?
[LOBO]
I just made my default browser “Google Chrome” after what seems like far too much debate.
Only now does it occur to me that for decades the thought of buying an Apple computer over a PC would have been ardently scoffed at. I've been ‘on board’ with computers since the TI-99 -one could argue that’s from the inception of the Personal Computer Revolution- and so help me God, through the defective chip releases and temperamental software, I've been a PC guy all the way.
But I look around my desk to see an iPhone, iPod, iTunes, iThis, iThat … now I’ve even ditched even Internet Explorer. And you know what PC? I ain’t married to you either: if Apple brings all this CrApple together into one collapsible device the size of a DVD case or so, I can’t imagine Intel ever getting another nickel from me.
Unless it’s some sort of government bailout.
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