The Definitive Unbiased History of Future LOBOnian Earth

 Predator Press  

[LOBO]

Occasionally, I am reminded that a lot of things had to happen for me to happen. And as the final culmination of all that galactic effort, I feel we should take a moment to reflect and appreciate the things that made me possible.


ne day, God and Jesus were in the garage working on Jesus' Pinewood Derby car. Both were frustrated, because Jesus' healing powers kept making the blocks of wood turn back into trees. They tried everything: gloves, robots, dinosaurs ... but nothing worked, and soon the garage was stuffed with pine trees. This, coupled with the annoying habit Jesus had of making slurpy sounds with his straw, frustrated God to the point that He created the horrifically disgusting dump we all know as "Earth."

Inevitably Jesus, bored, snuck into the garage alone. And there was the Earth, sitting in God's vice grips, getting ready for it's last application of water sealant. Jesus, a mischievous lil scamp, paused from making slurpy sounds long enough to take a piece of ice out of his Pepsi, and dropped it on the hapless planet.

"Look out Noah!" he cried. "I'm killing the dinosaurs!"

Noah floated all over the place, and finally discovered America. And because he had all the animals, Noah quickly cornered the market on fast food franchises -crushing the vegetarian competition. This depressed the vegetarian Steve Jobs so much, he started working on computers. Steve Jobs would subsequently invent the iPod, and thusly made space exploration possible. And a lot less boring. His company, Apple, would go on to defeat the Pharaoh by dropping frogs on him via helicopter. While perhaps not the most effective method of warfare, it is certainly by far the funniest: after a few years that Pharaoh was freaking out. "Why are all these frogs falling on me?" he would demand from the Jews. The Jews, tired of cleaning frog guts off of the pyramids, formed a tax-free consortium and bought up 51% of Egypt in a hostile takeover bid.

The Pharaoh was summarily fired from the Board of Directors, and the Jews lived happily ever after.

Ox Nuts and the Escape from Zanzibar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

x Nuts and Gwendolyn, on a beautiful white stallion Ox Nuts named Beautiful White Stallion, rode day and night at full gallop. But just as they arrived at the Zanzibar border, they got pulled over by the ZPD.

"Excuse me sir, I am going to need to see your license and registration," demanded one of the cops. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going? This is a school zone."

"Hey, O'Malley," said the second cop. "This guy looks familiar. Isn't this the guy that escaped the Vile Prince of Zanzibar yesterday?"

"Indeed," Ox Nuts replied menacingly. "It is I, the Mighty Ox Nuts!"

"We don't want any trouble mister.  Word on the street is somebody put a hit on the geometry class. If that's you, we don't want any part of that."

"Yeah," O'Malley agreed.  "That sounds kinda dangerous, and frankly unprofitable.  We just want to give you some traffic tickets and send you on your way."

So Ox Nuts was cited for going 30mph in a 20, a busted taillight, and a parking ticket for pulling over in a red zone.

"How can a horse have a busted taillight?" Ox Nuts complained.

"Forget it," said Gwendolyn. "Let's just go find someplace we can have sex."

"Ox Nuts cannot have sex with you," he brooded. "Not while Gwendolyn is married to the Vile Prince of Zanzibar!"

"Okay whatever. Just drop me off at that night club over there. I'll see you in a few hours." As she dismounted, she paused thoughtfully, peering into Ox Nut's clearly wounded eyes.  And as she watched, a single tear ran down his Mighty cheek.

"Well, see you later," she waved.  "Do you have any condoms?  I hate when I get all itchy down there."

Guy Lombardo and the Vile Prince of Zanzibar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My wife is having an affair with the Prince of Zanzibar.

I know this, because I am the Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com.

I don’t blame her. She thinks I am a wealthy guy with long flowin’ Fabio hair ridin in his 3,000 foot yacht.

And how can I blame her? I never would have thought AOL would let me have the official logon “Prince-of-Zanzibar101@aol.com" unless I presented proper credentials verifying my royal lineage: through what was doubtlessly an oversight, perhaps a 'comedy of cascading errors' on AOL’s part, the name slipped through their corporate security –and that’s how I seduced my wife.

-Well, that’s how I got her to add me to her ‘Buddy’ list. But that’s where it all starts, right?

If you doubt any this tragic story, Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com can verify it.

I know this, because I am also Guy-Lombardo101@aol.com. And “Guy” will be the first person to tell you that the vile Prince of Zanzibar is up to no good. The vile Prince of Zanzibar will woo her with all his money and good looks, and then just toss her aside like a prom dress made of wicker!

Still, it would be cool to ride in a 3,000 foot yacht.

"Ox Nuts" Reviews

Predator Press

[Mr I]

"Dude," he says into the phone. "That was amazing. I mean, 'Ox Nuts' is going to be a major bestseller. Maybe even a movie. It's genius! I don't think I've 'punched the clown' while crying this much since, like, September ... who knew you could write like that?"

"But I post on the blog two or three times a year," says Mr. I.

"Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big! Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don't want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out."

"It's supposed to be a love story, you moron."

"Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle axes that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?"

[long pause]

"Maybe."

Ox Nuts: The Pilot Episode

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"Oh Ox Nuts, my love," cries Gwendolyn. "The ocean is so vast, and yet here it is, for us and us only. Our love is captured forever in this meaningless, private moment on a magnificent beach." She unties her flowing, golden hair. "Even the stars have turned away from us tonight. Take me now, you savage lustful beast! Before you are captured." Her flimsy clothing slips over her pointed nipples, her curves, finally falling around her bejewelled ankles. "I want to have experienced your mighty passion, so I can remember it fondly while you are tortured and executed by my abusive boyfriend, the vile Prince of Zanzibar. Oh Ox Nuts, ride me like a wild stallion ..."

Ox Nuts and the Vile Prince of Zanzibar

Predator Press

[LOBO]

he Vile Prince of Zanzibar, a mirror in each hand, peered from every angle he could imagine.

"It makes me look small, doesn't it?"

"Did you want us to make you a small throne so you look larger?"

The Prince's eyes flashed. "Mind your tongue, or you may not keep it," he warned. "But this throne definitely makes me look tiny. I want everyone in Zanzibar familiar with the concept of geometry executed."

"Yeah. Sure," shrugged the advisor. "I'll get right on that. Meanwhile I do have some good news."

"I love good news!" cried the prince. "Is it a pony?"

"We have captured the scourge Ox Nuts!"

Just then the doors flew open, and horrible screeching sound filled the throne room. Ox Nuts twisted his impossibly wide shoulders to enter. Each wrist was chained to a separate ship anchor that dragged noisily as he walked.

"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed the prince.

"Indeed," the advisor nodded. "What shall we do with him?"

"Execute him. In fact, new rule: 'No more non-executed prisoners in the throne room.'"

***

Mortal men usually die within few hours, but Ox Nuts was tortured for forty days and forty nights. This caused many Union infractions, and was finally growing on the prince's last nerve.

"Why do we have to execute him in the throne room?" the prince demanded. "If I hear 'kootchy-kootchy-koo' one more time ..."

"I have an idea," said the advisor. The cloaked man in black seemed to flow eerily to the executioner's ear, and from his pocket he produced something the mere sight of which made the gasping Ox Nuts groan.

A feather.

"I am loosing my patience. Perhaps we have been too hospitable to out guest," soothed the advisor in a reptilian laced quip, waving the quill gracefully. "Remove his shoes."

-But Ox Nuts was ready. Once he was barefoot, he grabbed the executioner's neck in one foot, and ripped off the top of his skull with the other. Then he scooped out the executioner's brains in one mighty toenail, and jammed them into the advisor's eyes, blinding him.

"Eeyew!" cried the blinded advisor.

Surging with new-found strength, Ox Nuts rose to his bloody, brain-splattered feet. And dragging the anchors chained to his wrists, he took another step to the throne.

"Where's the girl?" he growled, his sepulchral voice could be felt in the marble floor.

"Do you think I a fool?" the Vile Prince laughed. "If you harm me, you will never find her!"

Another screeching step.

Ox Nuts' muscles bulged, and he lunged one anchor significantly further.  The marble cracked all the way to the prince's flip flops.

"I'll bet she is in your iPhone" Ox Nuts glowered.

"Okay okay fine," said the Vile Prince, flipping through his contacts. "I was just kidding.  Here.  I will put her on speakerphone."

The phone rang.

"What now Larry?"

"Honey. It's the Vile Prince of Zanzibar. Remember what I said about when we were on speakerphone?"

"Whatever Larry."

"Honey, uh, there's someone in the throne room that wants to see you."

"Well I just painted my toenails. Plus I am shopping on QVC. I just bought a limited collection of porcelain dolphins that will look splendid in our QVC storage unit. And did you know Kim Kardahian had her baby? The sink is still dripping and all the murderholes are clogged with leaves. What ever happened to that television show 'The Facts of Life?' I really like Tutti ..."

"Gwendolyn," said Ox Nuts, straining another step. "It is I, Ox Nuts. I am here to rescue you from the Vile Prince of Zanzibar."

"Well I won't have time to shave my legs. But I can pluck my eyebrows right? I mean I will save time since I don't need to put panties on. Should I go with an elegant flowing princess gown with a tiara and maybe some tasteful bracelets? Or something like a hot tomboy tough girl, ready for adventure? I just BeDazzled a skull onto this really cute denim vest. But I don't know what kind of shoes to wear with it. I should just go with boots probably ... "

Another step.

Ox Nuts glowered. "If you touched her, I will make your suffering legendary."

"Ox Nuts I'm fine. He's my husband. He can't touch me. Larry made up the whole prince thing because he was trying to trap me in an affair."

"I will make your suffering legendary," the Vile Prince repeated, mockingly. "Meh. Where do you get your dialog? Rent-a-Center? You are about to kill your nemesis and rescue the girl. This is the best you can do? I mean there are dozens of people here to witness this history."

"Yes. Make in impression" Gwendolyn advised.  "Say something authoritative and menacing like, 'My vagina hurts.  The rest of you guys are going to have to settle for blow jobs.'"

Pondering

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So I'm just hanging around the lily pad, minding my own fucking business, right?  And along comes this gigantic human princess.

She's stompin' around, pickin up my buddies -BOOM BOOM SPLASH BOOM *smooch*, BOOM SPLASH BOOM BOOM BOOM *smooch*- I mean she is sexually harassing everyone in the pond.

Deeply offended, I blink my left eye. This isn't 'that' sort of pond ... this is a family pond.  And this lady is really risking numerous lawsuits.

-Or if nothing else, a very long series of angry letters.

The Reaper Grim

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Occasionally my job takes me downstate.

And I don't really mind.  When time permits, I'll even take the back roads instead of I-57. While from the map it looks a boring plaid, the corn farmers plant lavender on the roadsides; you can see the purple-edged road wind over mild hills almost to the horizon. Last week a crop duster "buzzed" me -I was both exhilarated and terrified frankly.  I thought he was crashing.

Inspired by the weather, I took my motorcycle this time.  It's a respectable 929cc crotch rocket I acquired recently during an intersection of "bargain" and "random circumstance" instead of personal taste.

But this is exactly what brought on my encounter with the rider in black.

Male presumably.  But this rider is always so thoroughly covered in black leather and high-tech looking protective gear, I couldn't tell you the color of his skin.  The bike, also completely black, is a make I don't recognize despite numerous attempts.  It is enviously cool.  This driver's signature, however, is that he usually blows by me at some freakish speed right around the same time and same place every day.

But today he slips into the lane beside me and revs his engine twice.

I rev back.

Race.

He gives universal "watch for cops" hand signals, and counts down from three with his fingers.

-And he is gone.  A spec on the horizon.

I grin as I rip through my own gears in pursuit.  As the engine roars underneath me, and I am lost in the road completely.  A glance at the speedometer has me at 156 miles an hour, however even that slight nod has my sunglasses being ripped from my face by the wind.  Miraculously I catch them, and as I struggle them back to my nose I smell and taste melting steel, smoke, and rubber -while being pelted with a painful mist of particulate matter.

Shrapnel.

The rider in black had crashed ahead.

-And I was screaming up on the accident scene.

I was so close behind him the debris field was still spreading.  The combine and the two cars involved in the accident were still lurching to a stop as I weaved through the macabre event still taking place untouched, almost as if I were a rumor or a ghost; someone deaf who had blinked would never have known I was ever there at all.

As for the driver, what I caught a glance of I hope to soon forget.

At least until I go to work tomorrow.

Sugar Plum

Predator Press

[LOBO]

eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.

“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”

And Jeremy was fine with that.

-He didn’t much like talking anyway.

One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.

Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.

“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.

Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.

The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.

Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Warm.

Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.

“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.

“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”

“She quit?”

“Claimed she was insulted.”

Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”

“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.

The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”

Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.

“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.

“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.

“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.

“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”

“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.

Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.

“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”

Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”

Both cringed in silence.

Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.

The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.

“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”

“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.

“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”

In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.

“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”

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."

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.

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.

I Promise I Will Not Donate Any of the Proceeds of This Miniseries to Worthwhile Charities

Predator Press

[LOBO]

hump-wrrrrrrrr!

Starboard.

Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre paced his deck pensively, and the sound was excruciating.  The seasoned Captain, missing his right leg below the knee, had a peg as pirates do.  But on his good foot, he had taken to wearing a rollerblade.

-Captain Jim “The Jury” Portre has been clocked at 35mph.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Stern.

Stressed and sleepless, the sound was impossible to ignore.  Only Vetter, nestled comfortably in a nest of comically large-seeming rope, snoozed deeply.  Even Nuk and Futz clocked the Captain, Max, and Brighta warily.

The captain, staring into the brilliant nighttime horizon, gave deep sigh to the salty air.

Max, balancing a long dagger on his fingertip, never took his eyes off of Brighta as he addressed the Captain.

“The treasure is there,”  he assured.

Brighta, arrow knocked, eyed Max with cool regard.  Brighta could put three arrows in Brighta before he could close the distance between them.  The Captain, however, kept pacing between them, making this geometrically a white-knuckled triangle of potential combatants.  It occurred to Brighta that Max was probably clocking the Captain more than letting on too.

“I’m confident this is true,” replied the Captain with almost a sarcastic lack of conviction.

Thump-wrrrrrrrr!

Bow.

“We’re lost,” mumbled Portre softly to the masthead –a wooden mermaid, tail deep in foam, rising before the cloven sea.  Pivoting on his peg, he leaned back to watch his unwitting hostages -mostly to ensure they were not listening.

“I know,”she said without moving.  “I got the coordinates from the First Mate of the Sea Nile.”

Captain Portre pointed his rollerbladed toe and inspected it casually.  From the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “What kind of vessel was the Sea Nile?”

“It’s unclear,” replied the mermaid.

Portre guffawed and spat.  “I am weary of your ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity?  You've sailed seven with no food on a map a dog gave you.”

“You never told me First Mate Noodlecakes was a dog.”

“Yes I did,” replied the mermaid.  “When he told you ‘I’ll bite your balls off if you get near the treasure,’  I explained to you that he was a Yorkshire Terrier.”

“Well he’s not a British aristocracy.  He’s a dog.”

The Legend of Testicles

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sure we’ve all heard the fantastical adventures of Hercules. But Predator Press scienticians have unearthed archeological evidence that Hercules had an evil twin brother, Testicles.

Testicles wasn’t as quite as large as his legendary sibling Hercules –and frankly he wasn’t all that bright either. But in their youth, Testicles often ran the show.

Hercules and Testicles eventually became bitter rivals, and Hercules often beat Testicles severely. One fateful day Hercules beat Testicles so badly, Testicles shrank off into obscurity forever.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

-as retold by Predator Press

[LOBO]

Humpty Dumpty knocked on the outside of the massive shoe.

No answer.

He knocked again. Louder.

"Who is it?" she cried from deep within.

"It’s the Humpster, baby" Humpty grinned into the peephole.

"Come on in. The door isn't locked."

He opens the door a few inches.

"You busy?" he calls into the seemingly-cavernous shoe.

"No," she grunts. "I’ll be there in a second."

"Damn girl," jokes Humpty. "You ain’t havin another baby, are you?"

There’s an awkward silence.

"Aw, congratulations!" says Humpty. He grabs some towels, and heads over to the kitchen to boil water.

Man this crazy ol lady sure does love to get her 'freak' on, he thinks smiling to himself. Shoe or no shoe, this girl knows what to do.

He fires the burner, and fills the pot with water smiling to himself, "Well, you know what they say about women with big hands and big feet."

"What?"

But Humpty, struggling for his asthma breather, didn’t hear her. The sight of the boiling pot of water had triggered a panic attack; all he could hear was the voice of his mother saying "That’s what happened to your father. One minute he was driving a forklift at a macaroni factory, and the next-" she pauses for effect, "Poached!"

"Hey are you alright?" asks the old woman. Now dressed in a sweatsuit, she alertly helps Humpty fumble his breather to his mouth. "What’s wrong?" she asks.

"Poached!" his mother echoed in his head.

"I’m sorry," he chokes, tears streaming. "Every time I see boiling water, I just want to grab a Bushmaster AR-15 and kill everyone I can find."

"Well I do loves a man with an eye for safety," she whispers. "I like Armalites ... don’t get me wrong. But they just don’t have the Viper range safety device that Bushmans do." She throws his arm over her shoulder. "Humpty, have you met my kids?"

Humpty leans away from the kitchen counter, testing his weak and wobbly legs. "Probably not all of them ma’am."

With her arms still around him, she helped him stand. Perhaps it was the proximity or the moment of utter vulnerability –maybe it was merely the smell of her perfume- but Humpty decided if ever there was a moment to tell her how he feels, this is it.

"Baby," he says, staggering to look into her eyes. "We’ve known each other for a long time. How come we never, eh, 'hooked up'?"

"Oh, Humpty," she blushes. "I’m very flattered, but you’re an egg. What would my friends say if I started dating an egg?"

Humpty, pride mortally wounded, looked away to hide the tears. Despite his aching heart, Humpty fought to reply. "You know," he sobbed. "We have our differences. But I have yearned for you for years now. I know your favorite band, favorite color, favorite flower … Damn it I love you."

The woman, shocked, stared in disbelief.

"And I don’t care that you’re an old woman that lives in a shoe," Humpty continued, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. "Can’t you see that discrimination is tearing us apart!?"

The woman’s pupils narrow.

"Get your filthy egg-hands off of me!" she screams.

"But baby-"

She dives for her cellphone, "How dare you!?"

"But I was only trying to-"

"Hello?" she barks into the phone. "Is this all the King’s men? A filthy egg is attacking me!”

Humpty lunges for her phone, and wrests it away from her. "God damn it woman, all the king's men will be trying to kill me now!"

Suddenly, Humpty realizes he has a .45 caliber pistol pointed into his temple.

The woman growls. "You make a sound before the cops get here, and I’ll blow your yolk all over the goddamned insole."

"Jezebel!" cries Humpty, lashing out.

Eyes bulging she chokes, "You damn ... dirty ... egg!" and falls limp in his arms moments later.

"Oh my god," cries Humpty as police sirens wail in the distance. "She’s dead!"

And even as the galloping sound of all the king’s horses become deafening, he calls out into into the sky, "Oh sweet Jesus! what have I done!?!"

Taking Up Space

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can only describe it as analogous to being shot from a gun.

There is nothing, not even the sense of movement.

First the whites, then the blues. And at that point, as if only now drifting into ranges of the human ear, a high-pitched sound gradually increases in the distance. It lowers steadily. A dissonant roar, now a thousand voices.

Some are conversations.

Greens.

Reds.

I can gradually pick out comments, see glimpses of faces in the violent, spinning storm. I try to speak, but by the time I do they are long gone.

My perceptions fight to right themselves in the gale, but I am slammed hard.

It is the Earth.

From a vertical horizon a snaking aperture reaches me, and I vaguely realize it is my own arm. Using it I leverage myself on my back, thus allowing the Sun to sear mercilessly into my aching skull. Crying out soundlessly, palms now flat to the ground, I can make out the hot, rough concrete.

It burns.

I sit up in confusion, squinting at my lap, my torso. I am bloodied, and unmistakably smell perfume and what I assume to be my own drying vomit.

Comically large heads circle overhead, blotting out the sky.

“Jesus mister,” cries a towering boy. “Are you alright?”

I’m not sure he is real. And when I open my mouth to speak I realize I’m not breathing. Wobbling to and fro, I heave my chest in effort to force my lungs to work.

See what's left of all you've known
through tearful mists of blood and bone;
fearful, hear them beg for death
through broken teeth and borrowed breath-

My lungs explode to life as if I had been undersea for hours, and I agonizingly choke the scorching oxygen in. My own heartbeat -absence previously unnoticed- thundered rhythmic and mighty in my ears.

“I'm fine,” I wheeze almost laughing. "Why do you ask?"

A Fairy Tale

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once upon a time, in the sprawling wooded hills called Sprawling Wooded Hills, there was a quaint little hamlet called Towndaleburgville.

This lovely little village was singular in that the people -peasant, pauper, knight, and baron alike- were all living very happily and contented in peaceful harmony. This was due largely in part to the glorious reign of the great King Artemis King. King King, while ruling his cheerful subjects in a fair and just manor, found much leisure time -as not much ever happened in Towndaleburgville- and spent most of his time solving puzzles and playing games with the brighter of his regents.

One day his lovely daughter, the fair princess Phoebe King, was riding her horse to the outskirts of the land. She loved the beautiful countryside of Sprawling Wooded Hills, the smells of nature and the friendly animals … but most of all, to view the sunset from a tall precipice at the southern part of the wood. She rode her beautiful white stallion she named “Beautiful White Stallion” to this place almost every evening when there were no royal affairs, balls, or cute knights hanging around.

But today from her secret perch with the dazzling view of the sunset, she saw something very odd: there was a tall, thick plume of smoke coming up from the wood below.

“Look there, Beautiful White Stallion!” she pointed, despite that most animals usually just look at your finger rather than whatever you are pointing at. “Why, we simply must go see what is going on down there!”

Beautiful White Stallion balked; the animal had just hauled them all the way up this damned precipice as he did faithfully almost every evening. And it’s not easy to remain a “beautiful white stallion” when some rich brat makes you go mountain climbing every day. And now the little tart wanted to go strolling into God-knows-what. It was probably just some urban renewal or another iPod factory anyway. Completely forgetting himself in momentary exasperation, he dropped his head to the lush green grass and muttered in perfect English, “You bitch!”

Princess Phoebe was stunned. “Beautiful White Stallion!” she exclaimed with glee and surprise. “You can speak?”

Beautiful White Stallion looked about in a feigned confused innocence, as if to say What? Who? Me? I’m just a dumb-assed horse with a stupid name, remember? He knew that if she knew he could speak, suddenly he would have to conduct endless conversations about shopping, fashion and gossip. And it wouldn't stop there, either. Soon he's got a cellphone and she's calling him in the middle of the night; her hair in curlers and tissues between her toes as she polishes her nails, ruthlessly and with great prejudice destroying some fantastic sporting event on T.V. with endless drivel about some Duke's great ass. Beautiful White Stallion shuddered as he realized he had no fingers with which to hang up a cellphone with ... and he never did find a calling plan for minutes that he could comprehend anyway.

But ultimately, if she knew he could speak, he would feel compelled to tell the oblivious little strumpet what a profoundly boneheaded and stupid idea these reckless sojourns were. A young, beautiful, rich, airheaded princess wandering around unarmed and alone in strange lands was bound to become assailed by Scientologists or something equally horrifying. And Beautiful White Stallion was an optimist: he hoped they would one day accidentally stumble across a bunch of axe-wielding savage cannibals or maybe a GREENPEACE member (just about any homicidal antisocial malcontented neurotic sociopath maniac would do really) who would finally "off" this harlot, forever ending his days of climbing that damned precipice.

“Oh,” Princess Phoebe replied disappointedly. “Oh well. Sorry. Off we go then.”

"Tramp!"


***

The closer they got to the pillar of smoke, the more it became apparent that this was no mere normal campfire. It was huge for one. And rather than normal smoke, the place reeked of sulfur, brimstone, and cheddar cheese. Princess Phoebe dismounted, hoping that by stroking Beautiful White Stallion’s nose and walking with him, it might have a certain calming effect -for indeed, the whole place gave her the heebie-jeebies. Soon the found a clearing, and right in the center, surrounded by blasted and scorched earth was a huge cavern mouth from which acrid smoke rolled and billowed into the sky.

“Stay here, my loyal Beautiful White Stallion” soothed the Princess. “I’ll get to the bottom of this!”

She came into the clearing cautiously, stopped about halfway, and called out in a friendly voice, “Halloo! Is anyone there?”

Beautiful White Stallion rolled his eyes and muttered aloud, “I don’t believe this s---!” but was cut off by the sharp stare from the Princess. Damn, he thought. I gotta be more careful! Beautiful White Stallion turned away, looked to the sky, and whinnied the most horse-like whinny he could muster as he pawed the ground absently with a front hoof.

Suddenly, the idea of a talking horse leapt from both of their minds: they heard what seemed to be a gigantic, thundering footsteps. Hauling itself from the cave with speed and grace that belied its enormous size, a huge dragon at least three hundred yards from tip to tail slithered from the cave’s mouth.

“Okay, that’s it,” stated Beautiful White Stallion flatly as he turned. Then bolting for the woods the princess heard him say, “I’m out of here!”

“Beautiful White Stallion!” the princess cried in terror.

“Screw this sister!” She heard his unfamiliar voice fading in the distance. “I quit!”


***

The princess turned slowly, shaking in sheer terror; she could feel the beast’s hot breath on her now. Inches from her, the dragon stopped, eyeing her carefully. The dragon closed its eyes, and putting his massive muzzle against her, inhaled deeply.

He was smelling her.

This seemed to go on forever, and Princess Phoebe closed her own eyes, unable to bear waiting for the behemoth to snatch her up in his huge jaws and devour her.

The dragon stopped suddenly and reared up on its hindquarters.

"This is it" she thought, prepared for the end. She would miss the final season of Melrose Place. And she hoped her daddy would remember to cancel her subscription to Cosmopolitan …

“YOU DROPPED SOMETHING,” the dragon boomed in a voice that shook the ground.

Princess Phoebe opened one eye, and peeked at the monster. “ What?” she stammered. She frantically looked around on the ground. Nothing. Bewildered, she craned her neck to give the beast a nasty look. “Hey, are you going to eat me or not?”

“YOU DROPPED SOMETHING,” repeated the dragon.

“What!?” she demanded.

“MY JAW!”

The dragon chuckled merrily. “SORRY. I SAW THAT ON A T.V. SHOW LAST NIGHT AND THOUGHT IT WAS PRETTY FUNNY.”

Princess Phoebe scowled. Men, all alike. Even the ones that are reptiles on the outside.

“WHEW!” the dragon's massive head gracefully circled her for a closer inspection. “YOU’RE QUITE A DISH, PARDON THE PUN. NICE GAMS. AND I THINK I SMELL,” he sniffed her again, “ROYAL BLOOD TOO.”

Princess Phoebe poked him hard in the nose. The dragon flinched. “All right. Back off there buster!”

The dragon … smiled? “SERIOUSLY. IF I WAS A FEW HUNDRED YEARS YOUNGER,” he paused, “AND ANATOMICALLY EQUIPT SO AS TO NOT BLOW YOU INTO A MILLION PIECES- ”

This princess tilted her head, put one hand on her hip, and pointing scoldingly with her other exclaimed, “This is harassment you know!”

“SORRY.”

She looked around, feeling a little more comfortable having asserted herself and not having been ripped to shreds. “What are you doing here?”

“FEDERAL RELOCATION PROGRAM. I TESTIFIED AGAINST A WICKED QUEEN THAT BOOTLEGGED A LOT OF NAPSTER STUFF."

She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Well you had better get those fires under control. I’m sure this is some kind of zoning violation.”

“THERE IS NO FIRE,” the said reassuringly. “I WAS MAKING A QUICHE, AND THINGS GOT A LITTLE CRAZY IN THE KITCHEN.” He paused thoughtfully. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO CHECK IT OUT?”

Walk right into a dragon’s den? she thought for a second.

“Sure!” she replied excitedly.

***

The dragon’s place was, although really warm inside, very posh. He was very proud of his lavish pad and gave her a grand tour, pulling out all the stops.

And he turned out to be very educated as far as dragons go. They talked about philosophy and world events. In the billiards room, they drank wine, shot pool and played darts. They played “Twister” and “Scrabble”- the dragon was amazing at Scrabble-- and Princess Phoebe even considered inviting him to the Annual National Scrabble Tournament that was taking place in Towndaleburgville the next day. They discussed baseball -he was a Sox fan, she was a Cubs- and they compared Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa’s RBI records.

They laughed, they cried.

The got hammered.

Suddenly Princess Phoebe glanced at her watch. “It’s three-thirty in the morning!” she panicked. “My daddy’s going to kill me! I have to get home.”

The dragon spread his mighty wings. “WANT A RIDE?” he slurred.

“Really?”

“YES. THREE MINUTE FLIGHT, EIGHT HOUR WALK. YOU DECIDE. BESIDES, I COULDN’T LET YOU WALK HOME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT ALONE. YOU HEARD THE NARRATOR: YOU’RE HAMMERED.”

“Yes, but he said you’re hammered too,” she managed between violent hiccups.

“WHO’S GOING TO PULL ME OVER?”


***

It was a rather good thing that Princess Phoebe had passed out early in the trip. The dragon was so intoxicated he went the wrong way, and had to take her all the way around the world to get her to Towndaleburgville. When he arrived, he was so exhausted and drunk he slammed right into the castle, completely demolishing the South Wall. He set her down gently, staggered three steps to the left, crashed through the drawbridge helplessly, and passed out right there in the castle moat.

He woke the next morning to an angry Towndaleburgville mob branding all sorts of weapons. He tried to stand and flee, but he had been chained down. Dimly, he became aware of a rather bleary and haggard-looking Princess Phoebe arguing and pleading with the crowd.

“He’s a good dragon I tell you,” she cried, climbing on his muzzle. “Wake up!” Tell them you’re not going to be a bad dragon!”

He opened one eye all he could manage under the painful sun. “DOES ANYBODY HAVE A FEW THOUSAND ASPRIN?” he managed. His giant, bloodshot eye moved over the angry crowd as they silently pondered the question for a moment.

Another figure climbed onto his muzzle. The king. “My daughter tells me you play a great game of Scrabble.”

“UH HUH,” the poor dragon moaned.

“Good then,” the good King King nodded. “Today you will play in the tourney. If you win you are free, but have to donate the prize to Towndaleburgville for castle repairs.”

The dragon painfully creaked the eye open again. “AND IF I DON’T?”

“Then you’ll stay right there long enough for us to build the biggest guillotine ever.”

While the dragon slept it off a few more hours, the people arriving for the tourney just marveled at the magnificent specimen sleeping in the Towndaleburgville castle moat. But the real marveling came in when the dragon woke and began tourney play.

He kicked ass. It finally came down to the dragon and King King in the final round, and the dragon creamed him with a final score of seven hundred and twelve to one hundred and two. The good King King lived up to his bargain and set the dragon free -but only after the dragon signed a bunch of documents leaving all the prize money to Towndaleburgville.


***

While his rule was usually good and just, there was just one little problem: King King was secretly a raging alcoholic, and a REAL bad loser. When he received word that Sir Blaine the Dragon Slayer had arrived (panting and frantic for having missed the Scrabble tourney), King King, surly from his humiliating defeat in front of all his subjects (and about a fifth of Jack Daniels), was hatching a plot. He ordered Princess Phoebe secretly locked in the dungeon, guarded with the explicit instructions that no Disney characters -animal or otherwise- were allowed any access.

“Sir Blaine,” the king slurred as the famous knight entered his chambers. King King was totally bomblast by this point.

“Your Highness,” Sir Blaine replied. As he knelt before the king, his Magical, Lifetime-Warranted Dragon-Proof armor clanked noisily, making the King wince.

The King proceeded to tell the knight a fanciful tale of how the evil dragon destroyed the castle, cheated at the games, stole the prize money, and as a final act of evil had kidnapped his beautiful and marryable-aged daughter Princess Phoebe ...

Sir Blaine left King King’s chambers that night in a fit of fury. The vile beast! To rampage around town like that. To kidnap Princess Phoebe, a wonderful girl that could make any knight’s codpiece suddenly uncomfortable! And, perhaps most despicable of all, to cheat at Scrabble! The mere thought of this twisted vermin roaming the country and committing such crimes against humanity sent Sir Blaine into such a fury, he grabbed a pencil off of the King's vast desk and snapped it cleanly in twain. Eventually. Using his boot. "That abomination must pay with it's life!", he roared. He drew his magical sword, the mighty Sword of EXCLAIMER, (EXCLAIMER wasn’t particularly useful at slaying dragons per se, but wow could it chew one out… even as Sir Blaine drew the mighty weapon, it loosed a stream of dragon obscenities so vehement and odious, I dare not repeat them in this story!) and solemnly vowed revenge.

King King had commissioned Sir Blaine the princesses’ own noble steed Beautiful White Stallion to conduct the grizzly business of slaying the beast, and Sir Blaine stormed off to the stables.

But tonight was Beautiful White Stallion's "Euchre" game.

It was going to be a long night.


***

When King King awoke the next afternoon, he was immediately informed by one of his advisors what he had done. He ran down to the dungeon in tears, wading through the dead Disney characters [this can't be called a 'fairy tale' without an actual fairy, so there she is on the dungeon floor, riddled with silver arrows or something] and immediately freed Princess Phoebe ... all the while begging her forgiveness. When the princess found out about Sir Blaine and the plot to kill the dragon, she immediately remembered that Sir Blaine had a hot car and an extensive, lucrative portfolio of diversified stock options in Microsoft. Immediately, the two hastened to the site of the ill-fated battle.


***

“Dragon!” Sir Blaine bellowed at the mouth of the cave. Standing around him in a huge semi-circle was the whole village of Towndaleburgville, as well as every other neighboring town within a hundred miles, and they all tittered with nervous excitedness.

“Dragon!” he repeated. He had to yell now; EXCLAIMER was in full-blown Tourette’s mode now, screaming things about the dragon’s mother and so forth. It was somewhat irritating.

It wasn’t long before the dragon sauntered out, a weary, confused look upon his leathery reptilian face. “HOW DO YOU DO?” he asked with groggy politeness.

“Surrender the princess, and prepare to be slain!” cried Sir Blaine defiantly.

The dragon as well as the surrounding crowd, began looking at each other in complete confusion.

“WHAT?” the dragon finally asked.

“The good King King told me all about your exploits yesterday. About you destroying the castle, kidnapping the princess, and worst of all cheating at Scrabble you vile beast!”

The crowd erupted into a disappointed din, a rush of understanding leapt around them like lightning bolts.

“That drunken bastard told you what?” exclaimed one peasant.

“Ah jeez … there he goes again. King King getting all smashed and making trouble again,” replied a carpenter.

Sir Blaine looked around. “You mean it’s not true?”

“Ah, not a word, good knight,” said the village barkeep. "My kids are going to Stanford."

“He does this all the time,” yelled and exasperated smithy. “Blast!”

Sir Blaine glanced down at EXCLAIMER, still screaming obscenities at the bewildered dragon. “Oh do shut up!” growled the knight as he sheathed the weapon. He then craned his neck to look up at the towering dragon. He pulled the face shield back over his forehead so the beast could see his face and shrugged pathetically.

“Sorry,” he said sincerely.

“THAT’S QUITE ALL RIGHT SIR,” boomed the dragon, extending a single claw. Sir Blaine too the huge digit in both hands and shook it effusively.

“You mean there isn’t going to be a battle now?” shouted the village leatherworker.

Disappointed murmurs rippled through the crowd … then suddenly they started booing, throwing things at the knight and dragon.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” started a chant.

Suddenly the king and the princess pulled into the clearing. The king raised his arms in the air to silence the crowd. “There will be no slaying today!” he commanded with authority (and really bad breath). The crowd quieted. “I actually have a better idea!”


***

The whole crowd, horses, wagons, everything, was lead by the dragon inside the cave. Everyone marveled at the steamy-hot yet palatial abode, and everyone was dazzled by the dragon’s splendid taste.

“Is that a Pioneer stereo?” someone piped.

“And Blaupunkt speakers, too!” wondered another aloud.

“A widescreen plasma T.V. and a satellite dish!”

Beautiful White Stallion, spared the "battle", still grumbled about the heat. “All this…but why couldn’t he get central air?”

The “oohs” and “ahhhs” continued all the way into the magnificent billiard room, so large everyone fit inside. The dragon moved to one side. Sir Blaine, sweating profusely in his armor, moved to the other. Princess Phoebe grabbed a box from the shelf, and proceeded to unfold the Scrabble board on the table between them.

Sir Blaine picked out seven tiles and set them up on the board, clumsily dropping several through his metal gloves. “Dragon,” he finally stated, “would you mind too terribly if I removed this stuff? It’s very clumsy for this … and it’s like wearing an oven in here.”

“NOT AT ALL,” the dragon shrugged, daintily picking his own seven tiles.

Sir Blaine began the enormous task of removing all the metal gear. Princess Phoebe aided when she could. The onlookers were all now more or less seated across the vast billiards room floor, straining to get a view of the coming competition. Few noticed as Princess Phoebe removed Sir Blaine’s last metal legging, their eyes met a lingering moment. Fewer still noticed the shy smile she gave the noble knight when his codpiece creaked, or the faint tint of pink that crossed his face as she beamed back at him knowingly.

All noticed that, just as Sir Blaine leaned forward to whisper something in the princess’s ear, the dragon spread his mighty wings, reared up and struck out at Sir Blaine with the speed of lightning. Sir Blaine, with the exception of his two feet severed at the smoldering ankles, was gone. His chair was gone too.

Everyone froze, completely stunned … except the dragon. He broke the silence with a sickening crunching sound that made everyone’s hair stand on end. Princess Phoebe, splattered in blood, screamed.

“DRAGON SLAYER,” the dragon chuckled, chewing noisily. “THE MIGHTY BLAINE!” (He swallowed, with some effort.) “-KILLER OF MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!” Laughing loudly now, with a macabre grin that showed almost all of his first three rows of bloodied teeth. “TWO DAYS WAS ALL IT TOOK,” he paused to belch, and one of Sir Blaine’s Scrabble tiles tumbled out. “WELL, BESIDES ALL THOSE YEARS OF PRACTICE AT THIS SILLY GAME!”

The stun was wearing off, giving way to sheer animal panic. The dragon tilted his head, and licked his lips, clearly relishing the sights and sounds of human terror.


***

From the point where the dragon ate the Princess and King, to the point when the dragon crushed the last three remaining human survivors against the cave wall with a single sweeping blow from his mighty tail was mere seconds.

Only Beautiful White Stallion remained. He was covered in blood, and badly in shock. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally after six or seven choked attempts, Beautiful White Stallion managed a single word.

“Why?” he stammered.

The dragon gave an ominous pause. Then, saying nothing, he pointed a huge leathery wing at the table.

At his Scrabble tiles.

Shakily, Beautiful White Stallion walked over to them. “I… I can understand Sir Blaine… I mean your family and all … but why everyone?”

He looked at the dragon's tiles for a long moment, a confused and furrowed look on his face. They read “ACXCACA”. Looking up at the dragon, he fearfully shook his head to say I don’t understand. The dragon shook his head disgustedly. “STUPID HORSE!” he leaned in with that bloodied, horrible smile. “THE LETTERS.”

Beautiful White Stallion looked again. “ACXCACA”. It made no sense …

Suddenly, the dragon smacked himself in the forehead with a blood-soaked claw. “STUPID DRAGON. HORSES CAN’T READ!” He laughed a sickeningly good-natured laugh as he gingerly picked up his tiles. “I HAD THREE ‘A’S, THREE ‘C’S, AND ONE ‘X’. WHAT THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO SPELL WITH THAT?”

Only You

Predator Press

[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.

Testicles and the Argonauts

Predator Press

[LOBO]

t was almost certainly Aboxades.

“Haw!” exclaimed the overly-audible voice -a voice you can hear easily over the din of the Market- from behind. “There’s his puny brother!”

Some approaching heavy footsteps –three men total, perhaps.

-Aboxades has himself an entourage today.

To the back of Testicles’ head, Aboxades guffawed. “Have you come, perhaps, to compete against him?”

Laughter.

Testicles sighed. He had indeed come to witness The Competition, and had a quiet comfortable spot under a shady tree with a spectacular view of The Games, the Argo –run ashore- as a backdrop.

But now he had hecklers.

“Fuck off, Aboxades,” Testicles replied without looking up, almost on mindless autopilot; living in the shadow of the mighty Hercules, his older brother, had made him hardened to such teasing. “My brother ain’t nothin special,” he breathed coolly.

“Oh and you are?” said Aboxades. With an armored man flanking each side, the Aboxades party was now fully blocking The Competition from view. “Your brother is going on a quest for the Golden Fleece.”

“Yeah, well if he wins.” Testicles chuckled at the irony. It was coincidentally Hercules' turn, and all fell silent as he casually flung a shield.

Several miles.

Striking a distant rock on the horizon.

“He won,” one of the guards observed.

“Meh,” shrugged Testicles. “I’ve seen better.”

Aboxades was aghast. “Better than that?”

Clearly both offended and wounded, Testicles noted Aboxades’ hero-worship. Rising to his feet, Testicles resolved himself to the improbability the men would simply leave.

“Well the way I see it,” said one of the guards, “while you fritter away under a shady tree, your brother is trying to save the kingdom.”

“My brother just won himself several months on a boat with no women and like fifty half-naked Greek guys. Fuck that. Call me crazy."  Gathering an apple, and orange and a banana, Testicles began to juggle his ill-fated lunch casually.

Suddenly, he had an idea.  "Are you noble men of the wagering sort?” Still juggling, Testicles nodded at a flock of wild sheep. “I’ll bet you fifty greenbacks I can lay three sheep in that herd before they bolt in alarm.”

“That’s impossible,” said Aboxades. “And I don’t want a bunch of angry letters from PETA.”

“You’re on!” said a guard.

“I’m in for a hundred!” said the other, already fishing through his armor for his coinpurse.

Aboxades scowled. “All right. I’m in too.”

Testicles unzipped his loincloth -still juggling- and the men all looked away in discomfort.

“What are you doing?” cried Aboxades.

“Winning our bet,” Testicles explained.  “Look, I understand that Hercules is a Hero and all. But Jesus … the guy is like nine feet tall. Most people run from my brother. I’m an Achilles man myself … “

Suddenly, in the distance, a sheep brayed.

“That’s amazing,” said Aboxades, forcing himself to look from between the fat, disarmingly-nimble fingers he used to shield his face.

"Well I can usually  juggle up to four pieces of fruit with no problem," Testicles explained. "But five is extremely difficult-"

"No, I mean the sheep thing."

"Oh, that." Testicles shrugged.  “Indeed Zeus has been very good to us.  But I don't think you fully apprciate the complexity of juggling five pieces of fruit simultaneously-”

"Hey!" cried a voice in the distance, from the middle of the herd.

“Whoops!” said, Testicles, flinching slightly. “Sorry Odysseus!”

Suddenly another faraway sheep brayed, and one of Aboxades' guards fainted dead away.

“Haha!” laughed Aboxades. “Do the black one!”