[LOBO]
Monday
Razed Right
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Currently embroiled in my third divorce, I now feel I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.
-The first strangely invigorating, thoroughly rude sensation, is that initial shower blast.
Hanging from the showerhead, the 80’s songs you propped yourself up with last night thunder in your skull. You fumble for the hairy bar of soap as a weird mix of “Safari” perfume, WD-40, glitter, and some bent tricycle spokes cyclone helplessly down the drain.
Toweling off, you curse whoever made you this coffee. They fucked it up entirely- it’s either too strong or too weak.
In an impotent rage, you realize you made this coffee yourself.
Sunday
Wednesday
Phillip K. Dickhead
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Picture a gigantic five-story hamster cage a quarter of a mile across, and each of the five floors separated by a maze of its own storage, industrial equipment, and systems of belts to bring freight in and out.
A demented child’s toy, blown up to the size of an amusement park.
-But I often forget its subtle and elegant genius; here at the precipice, the fifth floor, I can see down through all the cage floors, and clearly make out faces of my coworkers clocking in.
Coburn, my boss, is explaining something in excruciating detail. Probably the daily goals and hot issues, and I’m pretending to listen. But frankly the last thing I remember hearing him say was at the cafeteria pizza party two weeks ago, when he announced to some forty of us workers he “couldn’t eat with us because he is vegan.”
Well, I don’t want to work for a vegan –especially the world’s only fat vegan. At 5’2" and with a blunted-looking head, Coburn almost casts a perfectly cube shadow from any direction.
Coburn stops talking at the same moment I see Barbarossa, out of breath and sweating, clocking in on the ground floor.
Barbarossa is four minutes late.
“We will descend upon this like the angels of an angry God,” I growl.
Coburn, I’m surprised, is still here. In fact I’m reflexively engaged in his weirdly-hard, excruciating handshake.
“You’re a good man,” Coburn explains. “And the company has its eye on you.”
Sunday
Don't Eat the Red Snow
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"You realize," says Max, arcing his lightsaber gracefully, making the 'hyms' and 'hums' with the blue beam, "George Lucas is going to sue the hell out of us."
"I wonder if they work though?" replies Brighta. With this, Brighta lashed his red beam into Max's. Then, spinning, he delivered a second.
Max, caught wholly off guard, watched in horror as his left hand fell to the ground.
Twitching.
"You dick!" Max screamed.
"Why didn't you block?" Brighta defended.
"No lightsabers!"
"Okay fine." Closing his eyes, Brighta made his third and final wish.
And where Max's amputated hand was once attached, a chrome, high-tech Gatling gun grew from his forearm.
Max goggles. "Cool!"
"Now let's do this thing," Brighta nods, coolly clipping his glowing lightcycle helmet on. "Before Vetter drinks all the booze."
"You realize," says Max, arcing his lightsaber gracefully, making the 'hyms' and 'hums' with the blue beam, "George Lucas is going to sue the hell out of us."
"I wonder if they work though?" replies Brighta. With this, Brighta lashed his red beam into Max's. Then, spinning, he delivered a second.
Max, caught wholly off guard, watched in horror as his left hand fell to the ground.
Twitching.
"You dick!" Max screamed.
"Why didn't you block?" Brighta defended.
"No lightsabers!"
"Okay fine." Closing his eyes, Brighta made his third and final wish.
And where Max's amputated hand was once attached, a chrome, high-tech Gatling gun grew from his forearm.
Max goggles. "Cool!"
"Now let's do this thing," Brighta nods, coolly clipping his glowing lightcycle helmet on. "Before Vetter drinks all the booze."
Saturday
Valkyrie Rose
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Part II
”I find myself having to choose if I flee back to the surface, or stay in here and figure out what happened,” I says. "At this rate, the door will be closed completely in a day or so.”
I pan the camera to the cave enormous and slowly descending steel door.
A shock of static.
”I’m staying,” I commit to the black and glossy disinterested dead lens, shivering, breath visible in the chill. ”There’s nothing up there anymore anyway.”
[LOBO]
Part II
”I find myself having to choose if I flee back to the surface, or stay in here and figure out what happened,” I says. "At this rate, the door will be closed completely in a day or so.”
I pan the camera to the cave enormous and slowly descending steel door.
A shock of static.
”I’m staying,” I commit to the black and glossy disinterested dead lens, shivering, breath visible in the chill. ”There’s nothing up there anymore anyway.”
Apocalypse NOW!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The first problem with the Swine Flu is the name itself. Blech! Who names these things anyway? Would it have been so bad to name it something more palatable like the "Fuzzy-Bunny" flu?
To test this theory, I called my mom and told her I had a bad case of Fuzzy Bunnies. She thought it was wonderful, and requested I save her one.
But because this disease can kill you, the cutesy name theorem is imperfect: "Fuzzy Bunny" entered on your Death Certificate as 'Cause of Death' can have an extremely negative effect on your street cred; once the illness turns lethal, we're going to want to call it something more dangerous sounding.
Currently I’m leaning toward "Thor’s Bitchslap."
-Now that sounds like a pretty cool way to die.
That being said, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is according to numerous highly-scientific simulations I’ve conducted on the Flash game Pandemic II, I figure you all have maybe eight days left before the virulent "wonderful" outbreak of Fuzzy-Bunny devolves fully into the subsequent -and inevitably fatal- onset of Thor’s Bitchslap.
But the good news is with proper precautions there’s still hope for all of you not transmitting this disease to me. The Predator Press Center For Disease Control has issued the following recommendations:
1) Boil yourself at a minimum temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit prior to contact in a one half bleach, one half Lysol and one half holy water solution.
2) Burn all your germ infested property (unless you think I might want it). Use careful discretion here ... I don’t want pictures of your kids and whatever. Please limit this salvage to luxury cars, high-end electronics and precious metals.3) Be tidy. Without remaining hosts to be transmitted to, most pandemics will burn themselves out in a few months: the only thing worse than me wandering around mid-July roasting in a hazmat suit would be doing so knee-deep in a bunch of stinky skeletons. Please have some consideration. Cremation also 100% eliminates the possibility of you returning as zombies.
In conclusion, you all being dead will be a terrible thing for me to endure: I thank you in advance for easing my painful experience through your efforts.
Monday
Academix
[LOBO]
It occurs to me how hard I worked to pass my college biology classes, and how promptly I forgot all that largely useless data.
Chicago has a pretty limited ecology. Unless you want to be a doctor or a vet, Chicago biology classes should consist of dogs, cats, and rats. Some bugs. And maybe extra credit for fish.
The same goes for algebra. I ultimately would grow to like algebra, and was pretty good at it. But far as a practical? Again, not a single post-college application to date.
Zero.
Why don't colleges offer classes on fishing and hunting? That seems infinitely more important than solving for "x."
Sunday
The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.
“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”
“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”
“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.
[LOBO]
Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.
“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”
“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”
“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.
Valkyrie Rose
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Part I
s per design specs, the Mag Lev Network efficiently delivered Beverly to Winston’s apartment -200 miles away- within 20 minutes. Still, despite her rush, she found herself pausing at the door. What she is proposing is both crazy and frightening, and she steadied herself as a shiver ran through her like an electric current.
In this moment of forced and focused suppression of fear, she realizes her head is aching too. Suspecting her hastily-applied ponytail, she pulls the elastic ring out as she finally knocks. This unintentionally delights Winston who, already attracted to the good Doctor, has never seen her somewhat bookish and professional demeanor.
“Beverly,” Winston smiles blearily, still adjusting his robe.
“I’m sorry Winston,” Beverly smiles somberly. “I should have called first. But I spent the ride here convincing Rick to come.”
“Here? Now?” Winston winces at his own incredulousness.
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“By all means,” he steps aside invitingly and closes the door behind her.
If Beverly is impressed by Winston’s rather posh apartment, she doesn’t let on as she strides to his kitchen. “Do you have coffee?”
Still at the door, Winston scratches though his sleep-addled hair . “Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Did you watch the translated vid?”
“Some of it,” Winston shrugs, following her. “It’s a hoax,” he adds conclusively as he procures coffee grounds from a cabinet.
“It’s too elaborate to be a hoax. Nothing on this scale could be created in secret. Even the language is some long-dead derivative of Latin. Are you hungry? I want to order food.”
“It’s 11pm,” Winston protested mildly, filling the coffee maker with water. “And we have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“To report our findings,” Beverly agrees. “We are having a meeting before that one. These findings are,” she chooses her words carefully. Only now does it occur to her that Winston’s apartment may have surreptitiously. But for that matter, her apartment could be too. “Significant,” she proceeds dubiously. “Particularly given who we are reporting them to. Mag Lev will want to drill regardless of our opinions, and with billions of dollars at stake it would surprise me for this to just disappear. We need to discuss our findings first. And what to tell them, if anything at all. Rick is already on his way.”
“So you watched the whole thing?”
“Numerous times. And read and re-read the transcripts and all the analysis I could.”
Winston chuckles. “And you thing is some kind of distress call from some ancient civilization.”
“No,” replies Beverly. “I think it’s a warning.”
***
“How are we doing?”
“Well, it ain’t good,” I says, peeling back my mask. “I’m a hundred miles behind. I went down as far as I could -maybe a mile. But visibility is pretty bad.” Tucking my head into my lapel, I finger sand from the filter. “I got a goddamn flat tire too.”
There’s a pause, and empty static crackled loudly.
“Can you get back on track?”
“I don’t think so,” I says, staring out unseeing over the clouded chasm. “Negative. I’m sure I can get the bike fixed; my grandpa had a farm out here a few miles back. But I can’t see a damn thing unless this storm clears up. It looks like the end of the Earth.”
Would grandfather’s farm even still be there? I thought. This was nothing but boring farm flatland ten years ago.
“I’m going to have to check in with you guys in the morning,” I says. “I have no idea what has happened here. The landscape seems totally different.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Unfortunately, I can guarantee we won’t be finding any food here.” Hesitant and frank, I commit, “I would guess this is the end of the road really.”
“Round trip?”
“It’s your call. I’m familiar with this area, so maybe I can dig something up. And if the storm clears, there might even be a way to continue on.” I look back over my shoulder to see the gulch beyond the edge of the highway, but only see the whipping grey of sand and ash. “I don’t know how optimistic to be about the highway, but as far as being broken down, I couldn’t have picked a better spot. I grew up here. Blinding storm or not, I know the area.”
“I think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest.”
I laughed, “Funny. I was thinking food. I’ll bet a million bucks I’ll find a few cans of chili or something.”
“Let’s say you check in daily.”
“Grid permitting.”
“Of course.”
“We need to make this conversation short then, for my battery. I’ll bring back all the fuel I can carry too.”
“Refined?”
“Let’s not get picky yet. Lemme see what happens.” There's a thick, dried brush under the sand, and sometimes it cracks under my steps causing me to sink several inches. "This was a farming community. Unless is was looted thoroughly, I should find a trove of useful stuff. Frankly I don't know how you could have looted this place of everything considering how hostile it seems."
“I’m officially listing you as ‘Grounded by Severe Storm” until further notice.” A brief pause. “How long until we have you back on duty?”
“What makes you think I’m coming off duty?” I says. Re-applying the filtered mask, I switch off the doubtlessly-recorded conversation. The approval I wanted was, well, all I wanted. They won't be hearing me for a while. Did we do this? I don't know. Do I care?
Jesus fucking Christ. This place is a hellhole now.
I remember the Shell station sign, and that used to be at the highway exit.
No I don't really care.
-So that means that before the huge crack in the earth runs roughly perpendicular. I close my eyes for a moment to try and remember the place with roads. Eyes open, it occurs to me that I’m not on any of the ‘roads’ at all … I’m in a water retention pond, now full of sand.. Strangely fortunate, this leads me directly into the edge of the city.
I decide to prop up the bike and leave it. With visibility as it is, I'm as likely to hit an abandoned car or a concrete pole or something. Further complicating things is that my area knowledge is very old: you would be surprised how many new buildings and apartment complexes and roads creep in over the years.
Plus, my father's farm was well outside the city -maybe eighteen miles southwest of the -the "Rift"- as the crow flies. Farm land, surrounded by wire fencing to mark borders and keep large animals in. In short, biking any further off the highway would be a good way to get decapitated.
Still, I would live to regret my cavalier attitude.
This storm, to my knowledge, would never end.
And I would never hear another living human voice again.
[LOBO]
Part I
In this moment of forced and focused suppression of fear, she realizes her head is aching too. Suspecting her hastily-applied ponytail, she pulls the elastic ring out as she finally knocks. This unintentionally delights Winston who, already attracted to the good Doctor, has never seen her somewhat bookish and professional demeanor.
“Beverly,” Winston smiles blearily, still adjusting his robe.
“I’m sorry Winston,” Beverly smiles somberly. “I should have called first. But I spent the ride here convincing Rick to come.”
“Here? Now?” Winston winces at his own incredulousness.
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“By all means,” he steps aside invitingly and closes the door behind her.
If Beverly is impressed by Winston’s rather posh apartment, she doesn’t let on as she strides to his kitchen. “Do you have coffee?”
Still at the door, Winston scratches though his sleep-addled hair . “Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Did you watch the translated vid?”
“Some of it,” Winston shrugs, following her. “It’s a hoax,” he adds conclusively as he procures coffee grounds from a cabinet.
“It’s too elaborate to be a hoax. Nothing on this scale could be created in secret. Even the language is some long-dead derivative of Latin. Are you hungry? I want to order food.”
“It’s 11pm,” Winston protested mildly, filling the coffee maker with water. “And we have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“To report our findings,” Beverly agrees. “We are having a meeting before that one. These findings are,” she chooses her words carefully. Only now does it occur to her that Winston’s apartment may have surreptitiously. But for that matter, her apartment could be too. “Significant,” she proceeds dubiously. “Particularly given who we are reporting them to. Mag Lev will want to drill regardless of our opinions, and with billions of dollars at stake it would surprise me for this to just disappear. We need to discuss our findings first. And what to tell them, if anything at all. Rick is already on his way.”
“So you watched the whole thing?”
“Numerous times. And read and re-read the transcripts and all the analysis I could.”
Winston chuckles. “And you thing is some kind of distress call from some ancient civilization.”
“No,” replies Beverly. “I think it’s a warning.”
“How are we doing?”
“Well, it ain’t good,” I says, peeling back my mask. “I’m a hundred miles behind. I went down as far as I could -maybe a mile. But visibility is pretty bad.” Tucking my head into my lapel, I finger sand from the filter. “I got a goddamn flat tire too.”
There’s a pause, and empty static crackled loudly.
“Can you get back on track?”
“I don’t think so,” I says, staring out unseeing over the clouded chasm. “Negative. I’m sure I can get the bike fixed; my grandpa had a farm out here a few miles back. But I can’t see a damn thing unless this storm clears up. It looks like the end of the Earth.”
Would grandfather’s farm even still be there? I thought. This was nothing but boring farm flatland ten years ago.
“I’m going to have to check in with you guys in the morning,” I says. “I have no idea what has happened here. The landscape seems totally different.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Unfortunately, I can guarantee we won’t be finding any food here.” Hesitant and frank, I commit, “I would guess this is the end of the road really.”
“Round trip?”
“It’s your call. I’m familiar with this area, so maybe I can dig something up. And if the storm clears, there might even be a way to continue on.” I look back over my shoulder to see the gulch beyond the edge of the highway, but only see the whipping grey of sand and ash. “I don’t know how optimistic to be about the highway, but as far as being broken down, I couldn’t have picked a better spot. I grew up here. Blinding storm or not, I know the area.”
“I think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest.”
I laughed, “Funny. I was thinking food. I’ll bet a million bucks I’ll find a few cans of chili or something.”
“Let’s say you check in daily.”
“Grid permitting.”
“Of course.”
“We need to make this conversation short then, for my battery. I’ll bring back all the fuel I can carry too.”
“Refined?”
“Let’s not get picky yet. Lemme see what happens.” There's a thick, dried brush under the sand, and sometimes it cracks under my steps causing me to sink several inches. "This was a farming community. Unless is was looted thoroughly, I should find a trove of useful stuff. Frankly I don't know how you could have looted this place of everything considering how hostile it seems."
“I’m officially listing you as ‘Grounded by Severe Storm” until further notice.” A brief pause. “How long until we have you back on duty?”
“What makes you think I’m coming off duty?” I says. Re-applying the filtered mask, I switch off the doubtlessly-recorded conversation. The approval I wanted was, well, all I wanted. They won't be hearing me for a while. Did we do this? I don't know. Do I care?
Jesus fucking Christ. This place is a hellhole now.
I remember the Shell station sign, and that used to be at the highway exit.
No I don't really care.
-So that means that before the huge crack in the earth runs roughly perpendicular. I close my eyes for a moment to try and remember the place with roads. Eyes open, it occurs to me that I’m not on any of the ‘roads’ at all … I’m in a water retention pond, now full of sand.. Strangely fortunate, this leads me directly into the edge of the city.
I decide to prop up the bike and leave it. With visibility as it is, I'm as likely to hit an abandoned car or a concrete pole or something. Further complicating things is that my area knowledge is very old: you would be surprised how many new buildings and apartment complexes and roads creep in over the years.
Plus, my father's farm was well outside the city -maybe eighteen miles southwest of the -the "Rift"- as the crow flies. Farm land, surrounded by wire fencing to mark borders and keep large animals in. In short, biking any further off the highway would be a good way to get decapitated.
Still, I would live to regret my cavalier attitude.
This storm, to my knowledge, would never end.
And I would never hear another living human voice again.
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