Happily Ever Aftershocks

LOBO -Predator Press

So ya, I guess I owe it to the millions and millions of readers who are always asking me evey day "What ever happened to LOBO?"

And to a lesser degree, "... and Wendy?"

Wendy and I had an amazing Christmas ... dancing in the cool moonlight listening to Tychovski, and admiring the beauty of fresh snow under bright stars. But sometime around 7:15am, relatives showed up and gave us Covid.

So we had a solid 3-4 hours of joy and cheer, but all the new January and February murders got bumped down the schedule: frozen ground is too hard to dig inconspicuous shallow graves in. And due to the spike in demand, many of these holiday murders will have to be pushed back until April ... possibly even May!

[*sigh*] I know. Same as last year.

Our New Year's Resolution is to get more cardio.

Jerxes

LOBO -Predator Press

"Mitch?"

"Aspergers."

"Carol?"

"Way Aspergers."

"Calvin?"

I think for a second.

"Aspergers," I conclude.

Gina pulls away her glasses in frustration. "So you've diagnosed everyone on my Christmas list with Aspergers?"

"Christmas? I thought you were making a roundup list for the C.D.C."

Heart of Gold Part II

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

"Listen," says the cop, uncuffing me.  "We are going to throw this ... thing ... into the Hadron Collider."

"Oh really," I says, rubbing my wrists.  "We're going to do exactly what I planned to do before you so rudely arrested me?"

"We don't have time to send this to a committee," he barks.  "But the backup I called will be here any second.  This scourge on humanity must be stopped."

"Well, duh!" I says, choosing my words carefully.  But as he scurries around the room looking for anything useful, I begin to reconsider.  This guy is an all-business professional.  And he's big, barrel chested, and "cuts a good jib." Natural heroic looks.  He will be on the cover of magazines.

-Real or not, America needs heroes like this.

"Open that hatch on the floor," he commands, yanking at some cables.

"This hatch is clearly labelled 'DO NOT OPEN HATCH.'" I point out.

"That is an access point to the 27 kilometer ring they race the particles in."

"Kilometers?" I says, swinging the hatch wide.  "This goes to Europe-?"

But the second my eyes fall on the inside of the ring, I am lost in its violent beauty.  Glowing reds, yellows, greens and blues, flying by at thousands of miles per hour.  Utterly dazzled, I find myself wanting to fall to my knees and weep.

This must be what God sees.

Suddenly, the cop smacks me on the back.

"-and that's the plan," he continues, furiously tying the cable around his waist.  "Now remember.  One tug means 'Throw me the backpack.'  Two tugs mean 'Pull me back, fast.'  And if I don't make it," he hesitates, "tell my wife and kids I love them.  I did this to protect them."

"What is your name?" I yell over the maelstrom.

"Officer Clint McMannanaugh!" he salutes.

He dove in.  And immediately, the coiled cable next to me started to swirl away.

The end of the cable disappeared into the hatch with a violent crack against the hatch edge.

"Hey!" I yell into the hatch.  "Shouldn't you have tied this to something?"

Nothing.

I stick my head in to listen closer, and see a small metal object whip by my head from behind.

"Officer McMannanaugh!" I yell.  "You've lost your badge!"

A shoe.  And then a human ear.

"I think you should tug the cable twice!"

The cable flew by.  His revolver clanged behind, firing randomly.

"God bless you Officer Clint McMannanaugh," I mutter.  Opening the backpack, I look at the vile contents, the moist evil pulsing.  "But enough blood has been spilled over Europe."

At that point, I could have just Fed-Exed the whole pulsing squishy mass of weirdness to someone else.  But who?  I thought.  I don't hate anyone else enough!

The sirens approached.

All I can do is put this fruitcake someplace where no other human will ever dare touch it.

Tires squealed in pain against concrete.

-I'll put it under another fruitcake.

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

Heart of Gold

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

His moves are so well-practiced, the handcuffs are on me before I know it.

Blase yet clear, the cop explains. "You are under arrest for criminal trespassing."

"I object!" I says.

He rolls his eyes with the enthusiasm of a man who can tear his ACL rolling his eyes. "May I ask you why you were trying to break into the CERN Hadron Collider?"

"This time?"

"Yes sir."

"It came back," I says.

"Excuse me?"

"It came back!" I says. "Look in my shirt pocket."

He procures the paper, and unfolds it.

"This is a signed receipt of delivery from Fed-Ex."

"It snuck in.  I was acually expecting por -eh- art movies.  But it can't come in uninvited," I explain. "It's like a vampire."

"What can't come in?" he asks.

I nod my head to my backpack. "I already had it in 2006."

The cop's trepidation is palpable, and he opens it slowly. "Is it a head?"

"Worse."

Sweat drips from his forehead. "Is it a bomb?"

"You wish."

"Oh shit," the cop reals, shutting the backpack. "You got the fruitcake."

"Twice!" I point out.

He staggers a little, but regains composure like a pro. "Look. You signed for it. I get that it isn't fair you got it twice, ..." He gags for a second. "But it's yours now."

"Or is it?" I says. "If you arrest me, you have to take it as evidence. That makes it yours."

"That's a lie!" he sobs, tears welling.

"I was trying to destroy it by throwing it into the CERN Hadron Collider and banishing it to a parallel universe once and for all."

"Or cause a space-time disruption that wipes out all of Existence?"

I shrug.

"Either way."

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

Here Be Dragons

LOBO -Predator Press

'Carpenter Pants.'

Ugh.

-The modern, durable version of 80's 'Parachute Pants.'  Minus the teal, and presumably more flame-retardant.

Presumably.

"There are too many options and pockets," I explain.  "I don't even know where my penis is."

Fimbulvetr

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I left this morning, it was negative eleven degrees.

Holy shit that's cold.

I remote started the car through the kitchen window, and came out minutes later to find it off. I thought, “that's weird” and started her back up.  All kinds of blinking lights and crazy warning messages came on -like I was driving the flying saucer from Close Encounters.

“ESC MAINTENENCE REQUIRED.”

What the hell does that mean?

-"I'm too sexy to be stolen from the Earth,” I thought. "People will notice! Important people!

 

***

Home safely now. Banging the snow from my boots causes blinding pain, as numerous blisters have fused my feet to my socks. But even then it's hard to be upset. For one, I kinda like winter. Even this nigh-impervious dump is vulnerable to the beauty of a fresh coating of snow. But perhaps more importantly, it's almost Christmas … the months of crazy overtime are finally abating, and the four day vacation ahead -the longest I've had since August by far- is right around the corner.

I am greeted by a pleasant rush of warmth, and set the mail, an ironic mix of bills and Christmas cards, on the end table as I engage in the process of removing my winter gear. Phil II waits impatiently, mewing her plaintiff welcomes.

Preoccupied with the Christmas cards, I ponder looking forward to the end of the holiday season for all the wrong reasons.

-For the first time in years I am confronted with the possibility of not celebrating Christmas, and not having a good excuse for it this time.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Twas the night before Christmas
and I’m wide awake,
arraying the chimney
with bear traps and snakes;
the booby-trapped stockings
set with infinite care,
in hopes that the fat man’ll
blow his hand off in there.

There arose such a clatter
up on my roof,
-and I’m sick of cleaning up
piles of froze reindeer poop!
I let loose a war cry
-a blood curdling scream-
and empty the contents
of my AR-15.

One, two, three, four,
five six seven, eight nine
thumps from above tell me
I missed one this time.
“Oh Dasher, Oh Dancer”
cries a loud booming voice,
“LOBO this tears it.
You give me no choice!”

I empty a blast
at the source of the sound
-and another at a spot
I think he might bound
-but the fat man is spry
for all that it’s worth-
he evaded hot lead,
belying his girth.

Not a creature was stirring
as I reloaded my shells,
“I don’t want any trouble!”
I finally yells.
“Just leave all the toys,
and get the hell out
I don't want to send cops
on that long North Pole route!”

The back door imploded
in splinters and slag
and a blood-splattered Santa
in smoldering rags
was removing his coat
and rolling his sleeves
“This time,” snarls Santa,
“Only one of us leaves!”

We circle each other,
and I’m very alarmed.
I can’t believe
the size of his arms!
“Hey what gives?" I says stunned.
"You’ve been working out!
Where’s the ‘bowl full of jelly’
you trespassing lout?”

With a wink of an eye
and a twist of his head,
I know within moments
I will likely be dead.
Santa flicks his nose,
“You dumb blogging hack!
I’ve lost two hundred pounds
on my Nordic Track.”

"Old Mrs. Clause
must think you're a riot"
I says, "and that Stetson cologne?
I'll bet she don't buy it."
"I wear nothing but Polo," he says.
"Don't even try it.
Now I'll pound you to pulp,
and then leave here real quiet.”

"If you think that's Polo,
age is taking it's toll,"
-that's when I did
a slick ninja-like roll,
and from under the sugar-plums
grab the control,
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?”
I says laughing. “How droll!”

Missile TOW missiles launched
from tubes placed discretely,
but Santa danced deftly
–they missed him completely!
One of them arched
so high and so true
It blew the poor neighbor’s place
clear out of view.

“LOBO let’s stop this.
You’ve blown up the Burkes!”
“To Hell with you Santa!
Those people were jerks!”
“I don’t understand
why this is unpleasant,”
Santa opens his arms.
“Especially since I brought you a present.”

“Really?” I says,
resisting suspicion.
I lower my bazooka.
“That was your mission?”
“Why sure!” says Santa.
“It’s from your mother.”
And when I looked in that hand,
he punched me with the other.

Electric pain flashes
all through my cap,
My nose must be broken,
completely smashed flat.
I stagger backwards.
“Santa, you’re dead!”
… But Rudolph, behind me,
clean kicked off my head.

It landed on a spike
three blocks away
and I could see where my body
dropped and lifelessly lay.
Up on the rooftop,
the reindeer all raised
to resume the mantle
of pulling The Sleigh.

As I lay dying
I heard Santa fly off
-and I spat blood and teeth
in my last final cough.
“On Dasher on Dancer,
and to Mrs. Clause praise!
-We need bulletproof vests
for the reindeer these days.”

Santa, still climbing,
resumed his long flight
-his sleigh silhouetted
against the cold lunar light-
and as it grew distant
and faded from sight,
I heard "Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good ... "

... I dunno ... I couldn't make out the rest.

On Ice

Predator Press

[LOBO]

S
ANTA IS

A
BASTA
RD!!

Christmas? AGAIN!?!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I told Terri we shouldn't take last year's Christmas tree down -and just like I predicted, pow, they're havin another one already.

[*sigh*]

... Our lives would be so much easier if she just listened to me once in a while.

1001 Ways for Santa to DIE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I have already intimated on facebook, I think -to get over my holiday blues- I'm going to encourage you all to set Santa's beard on fire again.

1)  There's nothing more funner than stealin all the Christmas crap by punching the frantic elves in the back of the head while they try and extinguish the fat bastard with egg nog.

The elves fall for it every time!

HAW!

B)  Some places have really good smoke detectors: for mall Santas, while sitting in his lap, chain the 'Up' escalator to his belt buckle: hilarity ensues.

3) One time I superglued a laxative-laden White Castle hamburger to his greasy Pabst-smelling beard: the next day he had crapped himself completely inside-out.

-All they found was a skeleton on a toilet full of bloodied white beard tufts in an alternate universe.

N) This one is a bit elaborate: I call it the ‘Reversed Wolverine.’ Instead of adamantium, we replace Santa’s skeleton with glass.

Then we take him to the opera.

The Fart of War

or "Piece on Earth"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Operating on the theory that you can get Christmas-related posts virtually anywhere, we here at Predator Press have decided to briefly defy convention, continuing with the world-renown medical science millions and millions of readers have come to expect.

Yes, we're going to talk about farts.

Again.

Few associate Christmas with farting. In fact, farting is really more of a Thanksgiving thing I suppose -the phrase "Black Friday" is no accident. But I contend that after Thanksgiving, a whole month of leftovers, questionable company dinners, and experimental baking, we have created an entire society of unsung "gastronomical daredevils"; this under-appreciated methane-fueled event is currently at an apex unprecedented in the -dare I say- annals of human history.

In the many years I have known my beloved wife, I have never known her to fart. Not once! This distresses me immensely; I suspect that once she hits critical mass, she sneaks out with the car in the middle of the night and screams out to some obscure cornfield on the outskirts of town, blasting a crop circle into the otherwise orderly and unsuspecting topography.

This must be the case, right? Like it or not, everybody has to fart -and the more restraint you exercise, the worse the occurrence; forcing those things to percolate unnaturally is dangerous, and one could spontaneously explode in a big stinky bang that craters and kills everything biological for several miles, with the equivalent force of six Rosie O'Donnells at the Ponderosa salad bar. Sure I've got "Flight of the Bumblebee" in the chamber ... but are those arctic scuba divers, chipping out their now-frozen bubbles of mirth and mischief, Fed-Exing the joy abroad for no reason whatsoever?

Farting cannot -and should not- be regulated for any reason, and some of the oldest cultures on Earth still revere this fact. Muslims, for instance, don't eat burritos; if all Muslims broke wind simultaneously while facing Mecca during prayer, over the years it would gradually decelerate the Earth's rotation, causing environmental chaos!

As Americans, we are a wisely fart-tolerant, fart-friendly, fart-encouraging society, and the fart is imprinted solidly into our national olfaction -steeped deeply in tradition and heritage. Indeed, Supreme Court Chief Justice John G. Roberts has been quoted to say "When we see Sonia Sotomayor's robes a-flappin' in the wind, we immediately pull the fire alarm and engage in a orderly and well-practiced evacuation of the chambers."

268 Days

Predator Press

[LOBO]

With only two hundred and sixty eight or so shopping days left, those showing even the slightest hint of radiant braniosity are already gearing up for the Holiday Season. Indeed, I’m so far “ahead of the game” so to speak my Christmas decorations are already up! (The tree is looking a little spindly, but look around you: trees are everywhere. They’re a tougher breed than you might suspect.)

The reason this is now crucial is two hundred and sixty eight or so days is roughly nine months –almost exactly the gestation (incubation?) period of an average human baby. Without planning ahead, instead of buying dozens of copies of Danger Couch! and the Tinsel of Doom [reviewed here] to distribute amongst your loved ones, you could be embroiled in a screamy, messy childbirth.

Nobody wants that. And have you seen some of the baby pictures out here on the blogosphere? -Yeesh!

I have it on good authority that typical babies are loud, destructive, often smell funny, and are [*shiver*] virulent disease carriers. Seriously. Mumps, measles, cholera -okay I’m freakin’ myself out here, but you get the point, right? No babies could ever provide love, laughter and joy comparable to a single copy of DC!ATTOD. Puppies –eh- maybe, but not babies.

-And babies cost, like, hundreds of dollars whereas DC!ATTOD is a mere fifteen! Heck at that price, you could by a copy of DC!ATTOD, a Danger Couch! t-shirt and probably two or three puppies.

-So act now, keep your pants up in the meantime, and have a Happy Holiday Season.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The judge just kinda looks back and forth between me ‘an the affidavit.

Finally, he sets the doc down, leans back in his chair, and tosses his glasses lightly upon his desk in exasperation.

“You stand before me,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “accused of the destruction of a Christmas tree, an entire living room, and numerous Christmas presents totaling-" he pulls the forms under his nose, “$41,320 in damages.”

By this point, Terri’s sister, eh, 'Weepy,' is wailing openly in the courtroom.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I says. “And further I ask that you take the history of our relationship into consideration.”

“Proceed,” says the judge, tapping the fingertips of each hand together like a church steeple.

I stand and pace before the jury, already glaring at me in anxious disgust.

I can already see a ‘Guilty’ verdict coming.

This better be good.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I says loosening my tie. “Terri and I have been together for four years now. And every Christmas, I’m under siege.” I whirl and point at Weepy dramatically. “Because of her!”

"What?" Weepy demands between sobs. "I-!"

“Ma’am,” I says interrupting. “Do you remember what you got our youngest son two years ago?”

“Yes,” she says thinking. “It was a bicycle.”

“An unassembled bicycle,” I correct. “So you know how I spent that Christmas? I spent six hours putting that damn thing-”

"Order!" the judge snaps.

"Sorry sir. That darn thing together. And the whole time I hadda listen to the five year old ask fifteen thousand times, ‘Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you-'"

“I think we get the point,” says the judge.

“No,” I says. “I don’t think you do. I have to say ‘Did you finish my bike yet?’ 14,994 and a half more times for you to get ‘the point’ here."

-Murmurs amongst the jurors suggest I might’ve hit a sympathetic note.

I return my attention to my sister-in-law. Mascara running, she stares at me in disbelief.

“And do you remember what you got him last year?”

She stammers. “A race car set.”

“But not just any race car set, right?” Whirling away, I return to pacing in front of the jury. “It was one of those battery powered race car sets with like a jillion parts. And the kind that you hadda stick the track forks into each other just perfect, or the current would short out the cars. Any slightest nudge made the whole thing not work and I hadda start the whole thing over.”

Juror Number Four -the Foreman- a burly, unshaven luberjack-looking fellow, fainted dead away.

I glare at them. "I was making up cusswords at one point!"

“Objection!” cried Weepy’s lawyer. "I fail to see how this has any bearing-"

“Look,” I says. “A lot of people would like porterhouse steaks for Christmas.”

“Yes,” cries Weepy. “But your not supposed to fully cook them before wrapping them! We thought they were a DVD player or something and put them under the tree with the rest of the presents!”

“Ah ha!” I exclaim. “And that assumption is what caused Rommel and Hess, your two German Shepherds, to destroy your living room.”

“You wrapped Milk Bones for stocking-stuffers!”

I dismiss this with a shrug.

“That was merely a coincidence.”

An That's How I Saved Christmas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"What’s with all the humbug, bub?"

There’s no point in lying to the Infinite One: a natural consequence of a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past is subsequent visits from the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Future -and presumably in that order. In an effort to "get the drop" on the Ghost of Christmas Present, so far I’ve beat up the guy who reads the gas meter, two Jehovah’s Witnesses, and a surprisingly scrappy pizza delivery guy.

"I thought smiting pagans was what we were supposed to do," I says flatly.

"What pagans?"

"All these Christmas jerks!" I says.

"LOBO, Christmas is a good thing."

"Oh no," I says. "I ain’t falling for that old gag. Commandment number one is ‘Thou Shalt Put No Other Gods Before You’ … it’s right in the Charter. In the end you’re going to chuck all these Jesus people into the Lake of Fire to suffer for all Eternity … and I’m gonna be up there in Heaven laughin at ‘em with you."

"Hasn’t anyone explained the Holy Trinity to you?"

"Hey I’ve seen The Matrix movies like fifty times, and they’re twice as confusing as the Old Testament."

"Well I didn’t use Keanu Reeves for the Old Testament for that exact reason." There’s a Holy pause. ”What do you think of Nicolas Cage?”

"Meh," I says. "We need like a Brock Lesnar. You know, a big scary guy that can bust the heads of evil like superripe watermelons. 'Take that evil!' says Brock. Splat! -Ooo! How about Batman?"

"I thought about it," says God. "But there’s the whole image thing. I mean he dresses in all black, those pointy ears look kinda like horns. I just think it would confuse people."

"Have you read the Bible lately?"

"Good point."

"So we need a kinda normal looking guy, but somebody with that smoldering evil-smiting, Charles Hestony-thing going. Hmmm. How about Kevin Pollak? He was awesome in Deterrence."

"Too short."

"John Cusack?"

"No. He’s been walking a fine line with me since Pushing Tin."

"I got it," I says, snapping my fingers. "Bill Goldberg. I could totally see Bill Goldberg smashing Judas in the face with a steel chair."

"I like it," says God.

"Yeah," I says. "Bill Goldberg looks like the kind of guy you need. I can just imagine Delilah sneakin’ in to cut his hair, and him just showin’ her the back of his hand. ‘Now go bake me same damn cookies!’ he’d roar."

"You know LOBO, maybe you’re right. I’ve been too soft on everyone lately."

"Now that’s the no-nonsense Infinite Being we all know and love," I says. "Stop messing around with this ‘freewill’ and ‘forgiveness’ nonsense … it’s only stressing us out. There should be two settings for God: 'Happy' and 'Wood Chipper.' We need some oldschool fiery vengeful wrath. One strike, you’re out. No warnings, just pillars of salt, raining frogs 'an brimstone ... the works!"

"I really don’t think I need to go back to all that."

"Really?" I says. "Two words: Paris Hilton."

The ground trembles.

Wow that was cool.

"Or," I says thinking quickly. "How about Lindsay Lohan?"

A crack opens in the earth. Red fire and agonized screams spew out of it.

"Atta boy!" I says. "Now go get ‘em, Champ! Only you can prevent another Pauly Shore vehicle!"

Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”

Pipeline

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ah, September.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

It's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print: that fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When he sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my milk 'an cookies this year, WHANG!, he's getting a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then!

Look, it's not like I'm going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried food-scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Why do you want a rusty, jagged, salted catheter put in Santa and the other end hooked up to a team of startled Clydesdales? Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children!"

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid I helped out the mailman by relieving him of the entire neighborhood's food stamps. But when the eighty-six pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack arrived at my house, there wasn't anyplace to keep them except in the neighbor's empty swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to wipe away the blistering sauce with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal clockwise downward spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned. But did the prosecuting attorney ever bother to point out my valorous consideration of the Coriolis Effect in this unfortunate incident? No. In fact, that jerk tried to my the whole thing look like it was my fault!

You just don't get any "less fortunate" than that: I'm a hero if you think about it.

This year, the fat man pays up.

Cheers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Admittedly, I've had enough vandalism, injustice, larceny and violent fantasy to tide me over all the way until next Christmas. Why beat a dead horse?

All the little freeloading moochers are already asleep -dreaming peacefully of tomorrow's considerable load of swag- and I have some quiet reflective moments to myself. At the behest of my dear friend Lord Likely, I'm making an effort to regain some elements of 'Spirit' before it's too late.

Jesus never showed up to get the cool MP3 player I got him, so I'm listening to it now. And I know Jesus would want to enjoy the spectacular audio capabilities of this fantastic device vicariously through me, so luckily I already downloaded 3.4 gigabytes of vicariously enjoyable music on it last Tuesday.

Man I sure hope the King of Kings likes Def Leppard.


***

In my minds eye, I imagine all the things that would normally cheer me up. Like looking down on my vast naval armada from my impregnable fortress on a mountain that rains a hellstorm of bullets and laserbeams on people that get past the electric razorwire, invisible watchdogs and patrolling fighter jets. Or a giant solar-powered robot that throws gazebos and melts busses into slag while simultaneously transmitting unreasonable and contradictory anonymous demands and encrypted obscenities to random global superpowers, interlaced over hi-fidelity Korn and NFL highlights: "... Take that Kevin Rudd! That ain't football!"

But nothing seems to work.

Maybe I've got this whole 'Christmas' thing backwards. I mean maybe I should stop selfishly thinking of other people, and just start thinking selflessly of myself for a change. Maybe I should just face the fact that I have a fantastic, wonderful, beautiful and brilliant fiancé, great kids, a warm home and a full refrigerator ... the world is absolutely riddled with losers I can lord that over! I could start doing volunteer work so's I could help the less-fortunate and really do some bragging: those guys are a total mess.

And with this cheap labor pool, I shall build my sprawling and mighty empire; the triumph of my wisdom and the protection enjoyed under my iron-fisted merciless rule shall bring happiness for generations upon generations.

Wow.

... I do feel better!

Silent Night, oh Holy Crap

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Come to think of it, I guess I've always been a complete bastard.

I blame everybody else, and simultaneously forgive them.

There. I feel better. Don't you?

I remember Christmas one year. We were spectacularly poor ... Depression Era geezers used to circle us on wheelchairs and walkers, pointing and mocking how poor we were.

I often got the crap beat out of me at public school for having to wear thrift shop clothing. In Chicago, nothing will seal your inner-city fate quicker than making your debut on the first day of class dressed to the nines in ill-fitting plaid pants, a button-up green shirt and white dress shoes. Without cufflinks or zodiac jewelry! To pull off that look, you've either got to be really cool or really durable: Always leaning to the practical side, I chose the latter.

One day as the kids at school held me down while the Depression Era geezers did unspeakable things in my Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox, I accidentally busted Timmy Farkas' pinky finger on my forehead. It was pretty bad. He was bleedin 'an stuff.

I got scared and skipped school so's I could duck THE MAN.


***

I had been skipping school a lot anyway. Back then we had Truant Officers roamin the streets, and I was on a first name basis with my local guy. Invariably -after a grand chase- he'd return me by the ear to that kiddie prison of sadistic glandular freaks, drug and firearm deals and atomic wedgie-dishing where I would be safe from all the evils of the world. Long story short, I got suspended from school anyway because of the grievous wound I had inflicted on poor Jimmy Farkas.

Mom subsequently informed me that -as far as Christmas was concerned- Santa "had my number": as the virtual poster boy for 'naughty', I was essentially going to get screwed.

"Everybody tells their kid that," I thought. "Every kid's gotta get something for Christmas. You know, like a retainer!"

By December 23rd, I positively beamed with wholesome goodness and a youthful, zesty exuberance. And despite this mammoth effort, Santa's rat never changed his story or revealed his or her identity. At one point I was virtually certain it was the guy that ran the arcade. Maybe he was feeding encrypted info to the Ice Cream guy ...

... and so it goes.


***

On Christmas Eve, Mom was pretty adamant that Santa was still pissed, and at this point, I'm essentially panicked. Whoever this squealer was, he wasn't changing his story for anything short of curing cancer, and I had busted my microscope during a GI Joe interrogation months ago. ["No, Mr Joe. I expect you to die!"] And while burnin stuff down is always fun, lumps of coal aren't really the best medium for it. This was the day and age of napalm thank you.

I paced in my room, my massive soon-to-be-unfulfilled Christmas list ran through my mind like those glowing numbers on the Stock Exchange. No aircraft carrier. No F-16s. Probably not even some lousy weapons-grade plutonium.

No tanks.

Nothing.

I went back downstairs to get a last forlorn look at the Christmas tree. It was really pretty, and the colored lights danced playfully along the walls. Why I could swear there was more lights than you could count. One for every curse word Dad uttered as he dragged the box of 'em out of the garage attic, hauled them in, located and fixed the busted bulbs, and drag the ladder in to put that star on top.

Scattered around the bottom of the tree, there was already presents.

"To Mom from Dad".

"To Dad from Mom"

It was a beautiful thing. While there was nothing for me there, I stood gazing at the spectacular demonstration of love expressed between my parents.

I teared up. For it was in that one shining moment that I understood the true spirit of Christmas.

While Santa might not be coming to give me presents, he would be coming here tonight.

For them.


***

My mind raced as I padded upstairs. What kind of fight could one expect from the fat man? Was he even fat? Santa obviously had a vast intelligence network ... could the rotund, happy and good-natured image be entirely composed of a propaganda campaign? What if he's all slimmed down from a Mrs Claus-mandated diet of lowfat proteins and carbs? I pictured a Rambo-like Santa running on a Nordic Track, Glock in each hand, picking off pictures of people on his "naughty" list.

From my closet, I dug out my armor and weapons: my football helmet, pads, cup, and a nice aluminum baseball bat.

"You don't come on my turf and mess with the bull," I growled. "You'll get the horns."

Then, arching my body impossibly over the presents, I nestled myself comfortably behind the tree.

And I waited.


***

Now, I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this on Christmas morning than they are really willing to admit.

My mom got up early and -in her bathrobe and big fuzzy bunny slippers- made coffee. In a rare moment of quiet solitude, she wandered by the tree to admire it. The big cup of coffee cupped in both hands, head slightly cocked ... in my mind's eye I can almost see her angelic wistful face admiring the splendid culmination of all my dad's cursing.

Spotting a fallen ornament, she gracefully leans down to pick it up and re-hang it.


***

I woke up to the rustling sound of activity nearby. Bleary, I listened through the helmet. No, I definitely heard something. I opened my eyes cautiously, and spotted movement.

It was time.

I tensed up and sprung out like a cat, screaming.

Now, my mom, previously enjoying a quiet solemn Christmasy moment, probably reacted pretty normally to a screaming midget in a football uniform wildly waving a baseball bat bursting out of her Christmas tree dragging huge, macabre tangles of Christmas lights and tinsel.

She screamed.

Dad, hearing us both screaming, came tearing out of bed and rushing downstairs. Now, do you know how many times this man has yelled at me about running up and down the stairs? Sure enough, he missed a stair and crashed noisily to the ground, breaking his leg.

Mom looks at dad and screams. I scream. Mom looks at me again, screams, and then faints --cutting herself on the broken ornament and requiring four stitches. I see blood and I faint.

... And so on.


***

The paramedics and police, alerted immediately by the neighbors, got on the scene in minutes.

I woke running a fever. Seems Santa not only has a sense of humor, but he possesses biological weapons and is more than willing to use 'em. Must have injected me while I was asleep.

Next year, fat man.

Next year.

A Slicing Device

A Predator Press adaptation of a 2006 Predator Press adaptation of "A Christmas Carol", written by some other guy.

[LOBO]

My first goal as an "author", I suppose, is to make an impression on people's hearts.

Truth be told, I hate writing. But I'm too short and scrawny to leave impressions on people's foreheads where they tend to be much more effective, and cinderblocks get heavy after a while. Ever try to nail that oblivious jerk hogging the whole fast lane at 56 miles an hour with a cinderblock?

I rest my case.

I've had to learn to be flexible, and adapt my impression-leaving skills.

Firstly, I'm not buying a single Christmas present. At this point, just going to the grocery store is a major pain in the ass. Today at Kmart, I hadda throw six elbows in four minutes just to buy a gallon of Snickers-flavored ice cream, four boxes of Twinkies, a three layer chocolate cake and a six pack of Diet Pepsi.

Either I'm getting older, or those little old ladies are getting tougher. And some of them got back up once or twice! I ended up leaving them spitting and hissing in Isle 14 thanks to an improvised oil slick composed of Snickers ice cream, Twinkies, chocolate cake, and Diet Pepsi.

This won't end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I'll once again be fighting for meals with crowds of people returning the stuff they've already inconvenienced me buying. And they will be twice as cranky because of futile and unrealistic New Years Resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam.

In truth, Holidays make everyone completely self-centered homicidal jerks that only screw everything up for me, and I hope God punishes them severely for hijacking my breakfast today with their selfishness. Maybe a nice convenient electrical fire or something. I mean, there's a reason we don't have trees in our houses already, right? They're flammable! And every one of these pagans have a living room sprawled with Stetson Cologne Molotov cocktails, augmented by eight pounds of wrapping paper and a tinsel primer. It would be easy for vengeful Almighty God to smite the crap out of them.

As He should, I might add.

... I wouldn't give God any guff this year. As always, we at Predator Press stand 100% firmly behind Him.

Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Isn't it enough to just say "Merry Christmas" you jerk?

[*sigh*]


***

So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.

"LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!"

"Who?"

"The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture ..."

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Because I'm a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?"

Hah! He said 'dickens'.

"It's 3am you jerk," I says.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I'm way behind schedule."

"What happened to those other two dead guys, 'Christmas Past' and 'Christmas Plus' or whatever?"

"They got downsized in July."

"Well, they were probably pretty lazy then," I reply. "Dead people are notoriously unreliable."

"I'm here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways."

"Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--"

"Let's go," he persists. "I'm on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?"


***

"Where are we?" I ask.

"We're at your place a year from now."

"My god it's huge!"

The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. "This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley."

"Wow!" I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. "That's really cool."

Over the massive, solid oak doors, 'CASA DE LOBO' is inscribed.

The ghost scratches his head, "Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in."

"What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!"

"We're invisible. Nobody can see us."

"Cool," I concede glumly.

Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.

And rabies.

"Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We're not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks."

"But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?"

"I don't think so."

"You know, for a guy who is already dead, you're pretty inhibited."

"Maybe."


***

It's a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.

Which means they can't move.

I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver's side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.

We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck's rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It's a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.

And that's when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.

It's Cobe.

"Is he--?" I ask the specter.

"Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again."

"A hot tub, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did he get it delivered?"

"Yes. And he installed it."

I shake my head, "Well, I've got to tell you. I'm not seeing a downside here."

"You're an asshole," says the ghost.

Deck the Halls to Hide the Murder Holes, Tra La-La

Predator Press

[LOBO]


December.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

Now that Thanksgiving has come and gone, it's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print.

That fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When that prick sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my cookies 'an milk this year, whammo, he's gettin a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then! It's not like I said I was going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried-chicken scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children."

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid, I stole our family's entire month of food stamps and had four pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack brought to the house. There wasn't anyplace to keep it unnoticed except the neighbor's swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to dry his burning eyes with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal downward clockwise spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned.

I'm a hero if you think about it.

We don't need any more of Santa's "selective generosity" crap: this year, the fat man pays up.

In spades.