Predator Press
[LOBO]
“No, I will
not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”
Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”
“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”
“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”
“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”
Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.
"Maybe fifteen?"
"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."
“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.
“Then how about we compromise and just
tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”
“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”
“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost
verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him
up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”
“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”
“
See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you
seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”
“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A
lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play
‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”
Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"
"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.
"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"
"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.
"No. I mean isn't that thing
flammable?"
"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."
"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"
"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."
"You can do that?"
"That's the whole point of
having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."
"Spelling?"
"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system.
I'm the victim here if you think about it."
"So you
can get in trouble for it?"
"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."
"I don't think it's a good idea then."
"I think it's a
great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."
"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"
"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"
“These say ‘
Made in China.’”
“Yeah. Ming, China probably."
"There is no such place as Ming, China."
"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”
“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”
“Well I would
hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."
“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘
Made in China’ sticker says ‘
Made in Korea.’"
“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know …
outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain
weird.”
“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”
“Yeah,
whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”
“Websites?”
“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”
“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”
“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”
“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”
“Pandas are too busy having
sex to make babies.”
Butterbean stares.
“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”
“Well,
yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene.
'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched
'Forensic Files'?"
"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"
"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."
Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."
"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."
"Go on."
"My point is with
'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With
'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."
"I'm not following you."
"Think about it. We walk away
hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."
Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'
"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you
aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time,
somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want
two bodies. And so on."
"But what does this have to do with sex?"
"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you
have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."
"Okay."
"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and
they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not
demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is
really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."
"I gotta tell you, this is
way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"
“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to
protect you."
Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.
“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”
“Then where did I come from?”
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was
not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would
you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”
“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”
“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to
contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”
“So the pandas are immune to babies?”
“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”
Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are
eating the baby pandas?”
“There's a
Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”
Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter
how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.
“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?
“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"
WHAM!
It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.
See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard
floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)
Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.
-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.
“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."
Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"
"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”
Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.
"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.
"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm
negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.
"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him
‘Smoke on the Water’?"
[LOBO]
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. “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?” 
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. 
"Ouch,” the aide winces.
Worse, it makes your poop unsinkable, unflushable battleship girders that circle around the whirlpool defiantly, bending the laws of physics and thermodynamics at will -some are so brazen, they swim against the Coreolis Effect! The larger ones exert a gravitational pull over the smaller ones, and they are drawn together -often into skirmishes for control of the tiny blue sea; the clanging and shrieking metal-on-metal sounds become extremely audible as armadas collide in angry, bobbing counter-orbits, and people are soon banging on the bathroom door. “LOBO are you okay?” and ”Where the hell are all those sparks coming from?”
As you can guess, hilarity ensues. I think they heard the palpable thump as it detonated on the living room floor below ... and what followed was ten seconds of erie silence, four minutes or so of shrill mayhem (choking, weeping, and the opening of windows and doors and such), and then five minutes of watery-eyed fingerpointing.
Maybe he’s a gay panda. Or what if he's got, like a racist sex-fetish and wants a grizzly -or a polar- bear? Hm? Are the female pandas, like, real fat, or otherwise stricken with infirmities? Try not reminding him of Oreo cookies or Loa Tzu; maybe this bear is just such a hard-core fucking nihilist, he’s trying to end the species. This planet is a dump if you think about it. 
[LOBO]
Man in Suit with Pistol: “After a hard day of espionage, who has time to blog?”
[hey, who the &@# hired this *@#! narrator?]
Guy on Yacht: “Thank God you finally have arrived LOBO. I have to decide between blogging and going to the Big Party tonight. And Princess Fantasia is going to be there! What shall I do?”
Surgeon: “LOBO, chicks think my blog is really dull. Can you help me spice it up so they will dig me?”
[here’s where I narrate a montage of really scientific-looking lab equipment. cue upbeat sciency music]
Another Nurse Previously Mocking Surgeon: "Do you think the surgeon would mind if we all go skinnydipping?”
[LOBO]
I remember being taught about quicksand by no less than three teachers during the brief debacle of my education. They all conflicted with each other too. “Don’t struggle,” one said. “Lay flat and roll out,” said another.
-I haven't slept in years.
Still, we here at Predator Press remain hopeful that perhaps one day Humanity will learn to communicate with quicksand, the most misunderstood, secretive, and voracious of Nature’s killers.
[LOBO]
“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”
Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"
"So you can get in trouble for it?"
"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"
"Okay."
“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”
I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"
Predator Press 
Aside from her rather striking makeup style, Tammy Faye Messner is probably best remembered for her doomed marriage to television evangelist Jim Bakker who, due to his extramarital affair with Jessica Hahn, was subsequently exposed and found guilty of numerous crimes including mail fraud and conspiracy.
“All art is suffering,” says the aficionado. “Michelangelo had censoring detractors. Van Gogh had depression. I don’t see how Tammy Faye running out of cold cream at 3 am at a Holiday Inn would be any different.”
-By LOBO
The lawyers tied up the entire estate in probate, and the whole thing was gone even before the blood, bone and hair had swirled down the shower drain. And they were unable to get mommy a manslaughter plea deal: she was sentenced to six years, and subsequently jumped the $250,000 bail. That’s why you and mommy live out of a car in rural Montana, drink boiled rainwater and eat slightly al dente squirrels six times a week, and poop into a coffee cans for squirrel cooking fuel.
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