Predator Press
Showing posts with label adam carolla. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adam carolla. Show all posts
Monday
Wednesday
Punch-Drunk Drunk
[LOBO]
ADAM Sandler will doubtlessly be suing me after this post.
No, I’m serious. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday poring over dizzyingly-long subpoenas, and it turns out he is among the proud and few not suing me yet. And I can't counter-sue until Adam Sandler sues me first.
What does this all mean? This means Adam Sandler has completely lazy and worthless lawyers: they are overpaid and pasty gelatinous SLOBS swishin’ around in lil skirts. Soon we will hear half-full Chinese take-out boxes, chicken bones, and small unfortunate animals tumbling through air pockets trapped in mountainous, groaning layers of Adam Sandler lawyer flab as it lunges in desperate pursuit of that one last cheerleader to roll over before the fire department hoists their STD-riddled, flea-infested fat asses out of pricey condominiums via numerous helicopters and cranes while dead, rotting hookers flop lifeless out from under ample bedsore-covered acres of greasy cellulite and acne once-rumored to be human Adam Sandler lawyer flesh.
-The universe has no place for idle, dawdling lawyers!
But what do Sylvester Stallone, Hillary Swank, Mark Wahlburg, and Adam Carolla have on the mighty Adam Sandler?
Hm?
Boxing movies.
I want Mister Sandler -Adam, if I may be so bold- to read my script Punch-Drunk Drunk. It’s a sequel to Punch-Drunk Love -a stoic follow-up that finds Barry Egan succumbing to his seven evil sisters, thus being forced to eek out a meager existence boxing grizzly bears.
But boxing grizzly bears is a terrible way to eek out a meager existence, especially when you just got promoted to astronaut! In the final match, the Emperor Grizzly Bear cheats and punctures Barry's pressure suit in the third round and is disqualitied. (I think Rob Schneider is a shoe-in for ‘Best Supporting Actor,’ particularly because he doesn’t appear in this movie.)So Barry is now Boxing Champion of the World and Emperor of the Grizzly Bears. But the controversy surrounding the victory yields only mockery and taunting from sports fans of virtually every species. Tormented, Barry gets hooked on 5-Hour Energy Drinks. He doesn't know what he needs energy for -let alone 5 hours worth- but suddenly he’s a quarterback in the NFL too. Eventually Sarah Palin shoots the evil Former Bear Emperor, and -thusly befriended- the grizzly bears team up with Barry, and together they go and defeat the vampires. And the Raiders.
(I still have to write Acts II and III.)
Friday
People Say "Book Burning" like it's a BAD Thing
 |
| It was a one night stand ... stop calling me! |
[LOBO]
Now working for a book distributor, I'm developing an increased awareness of how many of you nerds weren't left smashed on the schoolyard good 'n proper.
Books were things teachers made us endure because they hated and liked to punish us. And yeah I sell them. I sell them for the same reason everyone else does.
 |
| Miss Addington, have you met Elmo? |
But every day I see perfectly good, normal-seeming adults flipping them open and watching these 'books' for hours on end, just like it's a football game or something. I'll sneek a peek over a shoulder every now and then just to make sure I'm not being tricked -you know, like maybe they're watching American Idol on a concealed iPad or cellphone?
But no, it's usually just another one of those bookwatchin' cult weirdos starin at squiggly lines. Sometimes there will be a picture, but they don't move or anything.
No Kim Kardashian, no "Situation," no cartoons ... yet these bookwatching freaks just sit there, hour after hour. I'm squeamish, too: Christ, watching people do this to themselves is the equivalent of cutting the top of my skull off, and pouring in salt and broken glass.
What has America come to?
This is just plain depressing.
*** BONUS CUT ***
Just in case you guys doubted these books exist, I decided to link the pics to places they are being sold.
But Amazon.com made me shoot coffee through my nose when I saw this:
"Share your own images"
"Gift wrap available"
"23 used from $0.41"
"Want it delivered Monday, November 28 ... ?"
Monday
Independence Day
[LOBO]
The only problem I have with an “official” holiday is that everyone else is on one too.
When I take a sick day for instance, the world carries on as normal: television is on regular scheduling, stores are open, et cetera. But on an “official” holiday such as Independence Day, well, virtually anything I might have done is on holiday as well.
-And if you lazy bastards don't get back to work pronto, my head is going to explode.
“Honey,” says Terri, knocking softly at the door.
Sitting in a bath of deep bubbles, my copy of The Best of Philip K. Dick tented on my forehead, I’m pondering the story I just finished darkly. Dick, a favorite author, took an unexpected detour in his story Faith of our Fathers; for this he seemed to channel another favorite author of mine, H. P. Lovecraft. And I was wholly unprepared for the exceptionally-
-bleak moral. But a lot of PKD’s stuff is edgy, provocative and foreboding: he wrote Minority Report, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and We Can Remember it for You Wholesale after all (although Hollywood would take liberties with them; most people know the last two as Blade Runner and Total Recall respectively.)
Terri tries the locked door. “Honey are you okay?”
PKD’s impact on Hollywood doesn’t rest there, either. I could make a case that the whole Terminator series is a spinoff of his short Second Variety-
Another knock.
“Yeah,” I says reluctantly.
“Honey I need a favor,” says Terri through the door. “Will you watch Jessica while I give Maude a ride to get some formula?”
Scowling, I remove the paperback from my head and set it on the edge of the tub. “I‘m very busy,” I reply.
“You won‘t have to do anything,” says another voice. Male.The Butterbean kid.
-To get you up to speed, Maude is Butterbean’s mom, and Jessica is Maude’s newborn baby girl.
I grab a towel. "I don’t do diapers ‘an crap. It’s a strict policy I learned from Hillary Clinton. 'No Child’s Behind Left'"
“That’s 'No Child Left Behind,'“ Terri corrects.
“Even better,” I agree.
The rather debilitating sulk that Faith of our Fathers inspired didn’t drag me down alone. Neverlution, a heady and potent stand up routine by one of my favorite stand-up comics Christopher Titus debuted yesterday, and it seemed to round up all my demons into a nice little package: he covered everything from major depression -one of my many diagnoses- to the state of our mighty-yet-currently staggering beloved nation. Did we lose our Mandate of Heaven? Or was it always myth, like Bigfoot and the female orgasm?
I think I tried to be depressed for the country instead somehow, and it just made things worse.
-Nothing to buoy to, I suppose.“We’ll only be ten minutes or so,” Terri adds. “I just want an adult here. I couldn’t find one, but you’re the next best thing.”
Ha ha.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Butterbean repeats.
Still toweling off, I contemplate this soberly. “You’ll take care of everything, eh?”
“Yeah,” he replies with the surfeit of confidence only found in adolescents.
“You'll have to prove your competence then," I says through the still-closed door bathroom door. "You can have any four guests for dinner. Who do you invite?”
Butterbean pauses behind the door. "Uh-"
"Quickly!" I demand.
Then suddenly he blurts, “Ben Franklin, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Edison, and ... Socrates.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong and wrong,” I says, pulling on my boxers. “Jesus who could eat with all those dead people? The place would stink to high heaven. The correct answer is Adam Carolla, Drew Pinsky, David Allen Grier, and Justin Bieber.”
Duh, I thought, drying my hair some more in the mirror.
For the first time in my life I’m forced to admit I look like shit; I don’t think I’ve never been in this much cumulative physical and psychological disrepair. Perhaps worse, even the frail forty-minute sleep increments I manage -among the most painful experiences of all- are further complicated by a nasty bout of hay fever.Still, the back surgery went really well and physical therapy starts tomorrow. The broken wrist is marginally usable already. The ankle, however, complicated by two breaks, not so much -the jury is still out on a possible additional surgery.
I do intend to blog all this here soon. Probably at the end of this month, as it will coincide with an important announcement.
But I need a nice tall pale beer first. And maybe a plate of pork chops.
-Or a good steak.
“So will you do it?” asks Terri.
In the mirror, checking for acne, I spot a small red spot on my cheekbone. I zero in. I think it’s acne.
“Do what?”
Holy crap … I hope it’s not melanoma.
Note: That mirror pic is from a great site I tripped on called Funny World, and the gallery is here.
-But shh! Don‘t tell them I stole it!
Tuesday
Only You
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“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.
[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.
Saturday
A Contest of Wills
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I have concluded that if for some weird reason I should die, something has gone horribly wrong.
While difficult to imagine the concept of mortality and a chiseled phenomena such as myself in tandem, it must at some point come into consideration. Let’s face it: throughout history there is just a shit-ton of creative killing. One might even be forced to conclude that as a species we’re pretty fucking good at it.
Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, LOBO -the thought of future generations dealing with these tragic losses is just depressing. And you know some weird religious sect would pop up -doin crazy rituals and building pyramids an crap- in hopes that I would rise from the dead. Truth be told I hate acoustic guitar: this would be totally unacceptable. If I do rise from the dead, me an Jesus are takin out those weirdo hippies first.
And holy crap, there’s the whole "zombie" possibility. Plus if my formal burial tinfoil hat isn’t aligned properly, there’s the chance of being remotely controlled by intergalactic robot dinosaur overlords or something -to aid in their sinister invasion plans!-If you think about it, it’s in all Humanity’s interest not to allow or cause my death.
Nevertheless, if it cannot be avoided, I have decided I do not want to be buried or cremated or any of that witchcraft hoodoo.
I want to be detonated.
Instead of just bein plain dead, why can’t we have a little fun? I’ll bet it would be cheaper than all that funeral crap, too. Just dig a 12” X 12” diagonal hole in the ground (to focus the blast trajectory), fill it with explosives, lay my mighty corpse across the top, an pow, launch me mortar-style at something. Not a lot of explosives, mind you: bout six sticks of dynamite should do it -I don’t want to be vaporized per se; I want nice big, healthy chunks to fall down on something poetic of your choosing.*
-We should have a contest!Gimmie ideas -like having all the parts fall on a PETA meeting during the “Meat is Murder” preamble. How about a Lohan family reunion or a Palin Thanksgiving? Or a Tila Tequila concert?
*Like Adam Carolla, I also want at least one really enormous black woman in pumps throwin herself over my coffin, tearfully wailing through a veil "Why Lawd!? O Lawd why him? Take me instead, Lawd ... !"
Wednesday
I’ll Take a Case of Those Baskets, Please
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This post comes with a battery of "hat tips." First, that image was found at CrownDozen.com -an interesting-looking site I'll certainly be exploring in some greater depth.
Second, this post is inspired by a podcast by Adam Carolla and Larry Miller; it was they who made the astute observation I’ll distill simply as “In ‘70s cinema, there wasn’t anything not to susceptible to demonic possession."
This goes for cars, dolls, kids, dogs, severed appendages, televisions, statues, totems, jewelry, clothing … ah cripes, that list just goes on and on and on.
Everything in the ‘70s would at some point would try and kill us. And if it wasn’t due to an outright demon possession, it was some crazy recluse exercising some unexplained mind control, sicking killer bees or hounds or something on some hapless and well-intended yet far-too-nosy tourists. Or a monster or robot that inevitably turns on it’s “master.”
Again, I’ll return to paraphrasing Adam and Larry’s funny dialogue: it starts with the indignant “How dare you! I made you!” But this former minion is undaunted, having gained some insight to it’s own evil misuse: right smack in the now-burning “control center,” it would kill the puppet master -and itself- even as the evil human mastermind unconvincingly screamed ”Noooooooooo …!”
The people who voted on the Oscars –“the Academy” or whatever- in the ‘70s must have been very, very bored and overpaid.
Still, another ten years or so of the ‘70s would have produced some fairly interesting results ... On that trajectory, a movie about robot zombie space piranhas would have been completely inevitable.[*sigh*]
-Now I can’t get anyone to look at my screenplay.
Sunday
Eve
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve been following Adam Carolla since the Doctor Drew Pinsky Loveline days.
Indeed, as a former truck driver I used to schedule loads around catching the show: midnights in 2003 had me picking up loads from angry sleeping chicken farms and so forth. Today I own an unlicensed archive of thousands of hours of the audio.
The fact that his new show –one that six years later I could listen to live locally every weekday- was cancelled as of Friday was frankly heartbreaking.
But there were some cool and redeeming facets to the event.
Firstly, the show wasn’t cancelled due to lack of ratings or the management and wage disputes that are common in the talk radio spectrum. The home station simply caved into the bad economy and went to a fully automated top 40 format. It was a matter of numbers. And Adam could have –as is also common in the talk radio format- spent his last two days on air bashing his soon-to-be-former employer.
He didn’t. He spent the last two shows taking calls from fans, saying goodbye, and trying to get his newly-unemployed crew jobs. He let them read their resumés on air.
But -maybe more importantly- he went on to announce a desire to begin pioneering a uniquely internet-based presence.
This hit me in a weirdly patriotic kind of way. I don’t think we need to go to video stores anymore. Paper is dead. Telephones are obsolete, and above all corporations, special interest groups and marketing executives do not control anything anymore: these economies are entirely self-perpetuating monarchies choking on their own dwindling DNA fumes, and the failure to recognize this is half the reason America is caught in it’s own fiscal quagmire.
Since the advent of the internet, we have no business –literally- in these entities anymore.
Already a fan, I’m once again impressed by Adam’s unique insight: I think he represents the finest of the modern day “American Spirit.”
-And I’ll be watching AdamCarolla.com with keen interest.
[LOBO]I’ve been following Adam Carolla since the Doctor Drew Pinsky Loveline days.
Indeed, as a former truck driver I used to schedule loads around catching the show: midnights in 2003 had me picking up loads from angry sleeping chicken farms and so forth. Today I own an unlicensed archive of thousands of hours of the audio.
The fact that his new show –one that six years later I could listen to live locally every weekday- was cancelled as of Friday was frankly heartbreaking.
But there were some cool and redeeming facets to the event.
Firstly, the show wasn’t cancelled due to lack of ratings or the management and wage disputes that are common in the talk radio spectrum. The home station simply caved into the bad economy and went to a fully automated top 40 format. It was a matter of numbers. And Adam could have –as is also common in the talk radio format- spent his last two days on air bashing his soon-to-be-former employer.
He didn’t. He spent the last two shows taking calls from fans, saying goodbye, and trying to get his newly-unemployed crew jobs. He let them read their resumés on air.
But -maybe more importantly- he went on to announce a desire to begin pioneering a uniquely internet-based presence.
This hit me in a weirdly patriotic kind of way. I don’t think we need to go to video stores anymore. Paper is dead. Telephones are obsolete, and above all corporations, special interest groups and marketing executives do not control anything anymore: these economies are entirely self-perpetuating monarchies choking on their own dwindling DNA fumes, and the failure to recognize this is half the reason America is caught in it’s own fiscal quagmire.Since the advent of the internet, we have no business –literally- in these entities anymore.
Already a fan, I’m once again impressed by Adam’s unique insight: I think he represents the finest of the modern day “American Spirit.”
-And I’ll be watching AdamCarolla.com with keen interest.
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