Ultra-Violent Light

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once I decided I needed to rescue Sapphire from an alien race -who might possibly be planning an invasion- because I needed her help moving some furniture, a week ago I visited my dad for the first time in years.

"Are you on drugs, son?"

"No," I says, forgetting the Chantix.

"You would be a lot easier to explain to people if you started doing drugs."

"I'll try."

It gets quiet for a minute, and -after all the driving- I'm basking in the gaps of his enthusiasm to see me. 

My dad is an ex Chicago cop, that, at some point, said "fuck everyone."  He bought 100 acres of property on an obscure, undeveloped mountainside patch of land in Arkansas.  My mental image of him is often rocking on the porch with a six pack and a shotgun, serenely hoping "The Revenuer" shows up.

He has a garden, tomatoes, peas ... despite the austere doublewide trailer, everything seems kind of subdued and unremarkable. 

"How's your mom?" he asks good naturedly.  I can't really clock his eyes through his goggle-like Hubble telescope glasses, but I can see by his smile he is sincere.  "Fourth husband work out?"

"Fifth husband is treating her well."

"Fifth?  What.  Are you two in some kind of competition?"

"Very funny, dad," I says, a bit stunned by the raw observation.  "So what gives?  This place looks so ... normal.  Where is all the artillery?  We've never lived anyplace without at least one anti-aircraft battery within 100 yards."

"I keep most of that in the basement."

The basement of a doublewide trailer.

-Ah shit. Time for the crazy old coot to go into a home.  Well, he had a good run ...

Suddenly the lights dim to a flashing blood red, and an alarm blares.

"Quick!" He cries.  "To the wardrobe!"

***

The "wardrobe," it turns out, is a super-fast elevator to some kind of safe room.

The doublewide has three floors I notice.

As the door opens, dad storms into a very high-tech room with gun racks everywhere, replete with an operating desk and large, widescreen images of various parts of what I presume are his property.  I can't do any better than that, because I was barfing from the wardrobe ride ... I could tell you more about the carpet.

"It's a fucking rabbit," he says, selecting the screen depicting the area that triggered the alarms.  Pressing a button, large, unseen turrets slide up from the ground into the camera view.  "These guys are eating my tomatoes.  Wanna see something cool?"

The monitors lock into glowing, red crosshairs on the rabbit's head.

"Not really."

"But they are eating my tomatoes!"