The Death of Sapphire

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I kind of vaguely remember taking the pills Jenny McCarthy gave me, and feeling calm and, well, productive.  God bless these things.  I recommend them to anybody.  They are all stamped "PLACEBO."

“So what's the deal with you 'recalling' Sapphire,” I ask bluntly. “Are you getting your troops together to finally invade this dump?”

RDO, gleaming teeth over Skype, countered.

”Let's just say having one of our best examples of technological innovation on a stripper pole diminishes our reputation,” he says. "We heard you were hurt in a fire where you work. How are you?”

“I'll be fine when my eyebrows grow back. But the plant is shut down. I have three weeks off until it's repaired.” I sigh. “This is nothing like when you rescued me on that island and I had eaten the four other survivors.”

”You were only stranded for nine hours."

“Those noble souls weren't getting any fatter,” I says. “So what are you going to do with Sapphire?”

”Scrap her for parts, and melt down what's left for an ultra-secret military invasion about to take place, that I'm not at liberty to talk about. At the moment. Right now.”

“Do you think she will let me have her stereo?”

What the Fuck is a "Rampart," and Why are we Watching O'er Them Again?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"RDO has recalled me," says Sapphire, sadly.

"Oh bullshit," I says. "He wouldn't do that. I love you."

"You fired me out of a spaceship, crashed that spaceship into me, let me nearly burn up in Earth's atmosphere as I fell, destroyed my homeworld, ruined my credit ..."

"Oh come on" I says. "Where I come from, that's called courting. RDO is a short-sighted moron."

"He told me you would say that."

Okay, fine. I'm officially depressed now. And need solid, clinical advice.

"Before you go, do you happen to know Jenny McCarthy's phone number?"

Sapphire smiles.

"I have her on speed dial," she replies.

Red Wedding

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My tires screamed in agony against the parking lot asphalt.

The warehouse of the media distributor I've worked at for two years was on fire.

An alarm blared. I noticed other cars in the parking lot, and this tells me there are co-workers inside. I grabbed my codekey and tried the door against hope. If the electricity is out, I would have to plow my car –my beloved 1990 Plymouth Horizon, fully equipped with optional AM radio and brakes on all tires- through a weak wall thirty feet to my right.

But the codekey fucking worked.

Thick black smoke billowed out, and I ducked under it. I covered my mouth for no reason I can readily think of; the air just seemed too thick to breathe. Lars Arson, Phoebe, and a handful of other vaguely familiar employees were crawling and wheezing to the door I opened. Blind from the smoke, I made a left. Forty feet, right, climb fifteen steps … Thinking quickly, I topple a shelf of thick philosophy books. You know, to distract the fire.

… Holy shit, it's hot.

… right … left. Smoke poured from the nursery as I ran by. Then I passed a small group of nuns as they choked and wheezed prayers, presumably for fire extinguishers.

Can barely breathe. I am so tired.

I arrive at my department, the door conspicuously labeled “Adult Materials,” and then the rescue operation begins.


***

By the time the fire department arrived, I had six pallets worth of “adult materials” stacked in the parking lot.  My clothes, hair and eyebrows burning, I am frantically trying to extinguish them.

“Hey!” a fireman says, jumping from his truck. “Is there anyone in there?”

“Yes!” I scream. “The entire Marilyn Chambers collection, and most of Traci Lords!”