Movers and Shakers

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Way, way back in this blog, I mentioned managing an orphanage.

-As a successful entrepreneur, I feel it's important to give back to the community.

Well I’m proud to announce that according to StreetWise Magazine, my orphanage was far and away the most profitable in 2009. Nationwide!

The children hosted an awards dinner I was expected to attend, but I declined the invitation. (Remember, I do the budget for that place ... I’m not eating that crap.) I figured a more suitable reward for my accomplishments would be a ceremony held at the Hilton Brazil -an infinitely classier place, so far from the scrubby little bastards they couldn't dream of attending. They smell funny.

-And they would have been bored anyway. I’ll send them some pictures. They’ll be thrilled.

Unfortunately orphans don’t know shit about music, and any consideration to upgrading their food to real gruel instead of the imitation stuff was immediately forgotten when I heard the samba band they hired: the dense crowd of aristocrats and I were assaulted with the stabbing sound of a maraca player either drunk, a rhythmless incompetent idiot, or both.

Instantly grabbing a champaign bottle by the neck, I shatter it on a nearby marble statue and rush the stage so I can plunge the glistening, jagged edges deeply into the bastard’s throat. "You butcher!" I scream. "You talentless hack! You don't shake maracas, you blend maracas!"

While security held me back at first, the crowd had already turned on the offender; I was soon rushed up to try and rescue the performance. The lead singer tried to hand me his beastly maracas, and I almost reflexively spat on them. It was then I opened my briefcase and cried into the microphones, "Behold!"

As the lead singer's eyes adjusted to the glowing light, his jaw dropped.

I unsecured my maracas from the inside of the case. They are hand carved from genuine elephant tusk ivory, inlaid in gold, and are filled with naturally mummified panda embryos.

... And halfway through 'Copa Cabana,’ members of the audience were weeping.

Muling Heroin

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What?

Dawn Quixote was a dude?

-Well this post is totally ****ed now.

Thanks.

Ah screw it. Maybe my readers won’t notice.

Oops

Predator Press

[LOBO]

That whole last 'Hittites' post was actually supposed to be about Frank Lloyd Wright.

So at LadyTerri's request, I visited Doctor Viz-O-Quack, 'an that witch doctor prescribed me glasses like twin Hubble telescopes.

While wearing them makes my back hurt, I can now see how I have been so wrong:

I hate organic architecture, and I'm blind.

Author's Note: This blog does not represent the ideas nor beliefs of the author, nor does it endorse the ill-treatment of Frank Lloyd Wright.

No Frank Lloyd Wrights were harmed during the writing of this post.

The Phantom Membership

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Episode IVXIv.2

The Empire Strikes Out


President Bush called General Petraeus.

"You want me to bomb a city in the continental US?" asks Petraeus incredulously.

"And how," says Bush.

"And not one in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Pianosa, Illinois."

"Why sir?"

"It's our secret weapon to get the Republicans back in office, disguised as part of a new strategy in our War on Terror. Who's going to screw with us if we're so crazy we'll nuke ourselves?"

"Good point sir."

Cycling through his monitors, Bush finds his guy. "General!" he says excited. "That guy right there. Sector 754XA5."

"You mean the guy sleeping in his car at Cardinal Fitness?"

"No one will miss a loser like that." Bush squints at the screen. "Ugh ... from the looks of it, we'll be doin that poor bastard a favor."

"Still, what with nuclear fallout and all, I would suggest something a little more suitable to the scale of the threat."

"Like a giant robot crocodile?"

"No sir. Like a surgical strike. A platoon of tanks maybe."

"Oh god no. Have you seen the price of gas lately? I like the 'Giant Robot Crocodile' idea better."

"Yes, well-"

"It'll come up out of Lake Michigan, and seek out Terror with X-Ray vision, and smash it with the Tail of Liberty. Bam! Bam!"

"Well, while I understand your enthusiasm--"

"BOOM!"

"--I would still go with the tanks."

"General, this is the dawn of the Twentieth Centurion. Unless they hover, tanks are boring."

"We don't have a giant robot crocodile sir. The Liberals scuttled the budget in 2005."

Bush sighed audibly into the phone. "Just how many damn schools do I have to build before I get a giant robot crocodile that fights Terror?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know sir," the General finally answered.

"Why can't we nuke it again?"

"Because it's American soil sir."

"Is it New Jersey?"

"No sir. It's Pianosa, Illinois. Look," says Petraeus, exasperated. "We could put streamers and sparklers on the tanks. Then it would look cool as we bomb that prick into the Mesozoic."

"Like a parade!"

"Yes sir. A really loud and pissed-off parade."

"All right General," says Bush. "Make it so."


***

The 99th Battalion left Decatur Illinois at precisely 3:17am, and stopped to refuel in Bloomington, Schaumburg, Danville and Arlington Heights before anyone realized that they had no idea where Pianosa was.

This single blunder took up 18% of the entire annual military budget.

Due to this -and the Vast Liberal Conspiracy- the Terror-Fighting Robot Crocodile Project would never get off the ground.

Resolutions

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man, I'm freaking tired.

The pace at work over the last few months has been nothing short of blistering: I like the cool lab coat and all, but if I would have known that stem cell research would be so time consuming I woulda scraped out those Petri dishes right into the toilet a long time ago.

The Christmas 'break' was all jammed up too. I mean besides the usual shopping, police harassment and anarchy, I was working a grueling schedule donating my time teaching orphans to shoplift after school: there's just nothing like the sense of satisfaction you get when you look into the gleeful, hungry eye of one that has just boosted his [or her] first iPod.

I would still be doing those $20 seminars, but one of the more entrepreneurial of the little pricks lifted my wallet. Can you believe that? Man, you can't trust nobody nowadays. They're fiercely loyal to each other too: I practically hadda squish poor lil Jimmy through a fine mesh screen before he tearfully broke down and ratted on his own brother. Growing up in that decrepit old house together must have fostered some pretty serious bonding --and I don't mean decrapit in the 'quaint' sense of the word either: that place is a total dump. Too bad it didn't foster some taste instead.

But things are winding down to a crawl, and now I have the leisure time to design and develop my Evil Robot Minions. Chrysler says they can bring my Peacekeeper v1.1 into production for the paltry sum of $458,596,054.13 apiece, which is about $458,596,032.65 more than Jimmy's scumbag orphan brother left on my debit card. Now I have to decide between rewarding loyal lil Jimmy with the winter coat I promised him or cup holders.

... But I happen to be very fond of Starbucks, and the last thing Jimmy's shithole needs is moths.

Nobody Likes Me In Here

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Having figured out how to post with the simple use of a dead rat, I would have been fine finishing my entire sentence right there in my cell. But my other new hobby -counting my time served by drawing hash marks on the wall-was already getting me into trouble.

"Jeez," says the guard. "How many of them hash marks are there?"

"40,045," I reply.

"But you've only been here two hours."

"Time can be very subjective," I offer.

"Listen," says the guard. "Your best bet of getting out of here isn't feeding this psycho image. Prison is about rehabilitation. You should take a class or something, and develop a skill that you can use on the outside. It would also demonstrate a social capacity for getting along with others."

"What kind of classes do you offer?"

"What don't we have?" says the guard, eying his clipboard. "At two o'clock, we've got 'Doing Drugs Out of a Light Bulb'."

"Nah," I says.

"How about 'Toilet Micro Breweries'?"

"No."

He flips a page. "Crochet?"

"No," I sigh.

"Painting."

"Uh-uh."

"How to Balance Your Wall Street Portfolio?"

"Oh God no. What was that last one?"

"Painting," he repeats.

"Yeah, okay."


***

"Painting," says the teacher, "has proven itself to be very healthy and therapeutic for men in captivity for centuries."

"Eneries?" I ask.

"LOBO please don't talk with your mouth full," says the teacher.

I spit my paintbrush out over my muzzle. "Centuries?" I repeat. "What the hell did those guys do?"

"It's a figure of speech," says the teacher. Still, the imagination can be a vastly powerful thing. That's why I had you paint 'Something That Made You Happy on the Outside.' Now who wants to be the first to bring theirs to the front of the class for discussion?"

Uh-oh

"How about you Posey?" asked the teacher, keeping thing moving.

Whew, I thought. How hard can it be to follow up after a guy named Posey?

An angry-looking, well-muscled man dragged his canvas to the front. "This picture," he says, setting it on the easel, "represents me stabbin the key trial witness in the eye with a parking meter."

The room was alight with excited murmurs.

"Very well done Posey!" says the teacher. "And I take it that's the Judge hanging from the chandelier, spilling his entrails? Nice attention to detail."

Blushing, Posey grabbed his painting and took his seat as the room politely applauded.

"How about you LOBO? What did you paint?"

"Eh, nothing," I says.

"Nonsense. I've watched you working on that for hours. Let's see it."

Dolefully, I am wheeled to the front of the class, and a guard sets my painting roughly on the easel.

"There," I try to shrug. "Happy?"

Judging from the gasps, it was as if all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

"What the hell is that?" asks Razor Face.

"It's a basket of puppies," I says.

Posey vomited into the isle.

"You sick bastard!" screams the teacher. "Get out of my class!"

... Nobody likes me in here.

Warhead

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Once Sapphire called Ethan to verify she had the pictures, Ethan called President Bush.

Then President Bush called General Petraeus.

"You want me to bomb a city in the continental US?" asks General Petraeus incredulously.

"And how," says Bush.

"And not one in New Jersey?"

"Nope. Pianosa, Illinois."

"Why sir?"

"It's part of a new strategy in our War on Terror. Who's going to screw with us if we're so crazy we'll nuke ourselves?"

"Good point sir. Still, what with the fallout and all, I would suggest something a little more suitable to the scale of the threat."

"Like a giant robot crocodile?"

"No sir. Like a surgical strike. A platoon of tanks maybe."

"Oh god no. Have you seen the price of gas lately? I like the 'Giant Robot Crocodile' idea better."

"Yes, well-"

"It'll come up out of Lake Michigan, and seek out Terror with X-Ray vision, and smash it with the Tail of Liberty. Bam! Bam!"

"Well, while I understand your enthusiasm--"

"BOOM!"

"--I would still go with the tanks."

"General, this is the dawn of the Twentieth Centurion. Unless they hover, tanks are boring."

"We don't have a giant robot crocodile sir. The Liberals scuttled the budget in Congress."

Bush sighed audibly into the phone. "Just how many damn schools do I have to build before I get a giant robot crocodile that fights Terror?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know sir," the General finally answered.

"Why can't we nuke it again?"

"Because it's American soil sir."

"Is it New Jersey?"

"No sir. It's Pianosa, Illinois. Look," says Petraeus, exasperated. "We could put streamers and sparklers on the tanks. Then it would look cool as we bomb that house into the Mesozoic."

"Like a parade!"

"Yes sir. A really loud and pissed-off parade."

"All right General," says Bush. "Make it so."


***

The 99th Battalion left Decatur Illinois at precisely 3:17am, and stopped to refuel in Bloomington, Schaumburg, Danville and Arlington Heights before anyone realized that they had no idea where Pianosa was.

This single blunder took up 18% of the entire annual military budget.

Due to this --and the Vast Liberal Conspiracy-- the Terror-Fighting Robot Crocodile Project would never get off the ground.

Silly Girl

Predator Press

[LOBO]

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s me, Sapphire.”

“How do I know that—?“

“Look, just shut up and open the door!”

Sapphire enters.

She’s crying.

“Sapphire, what’s wrong?”

“Oh LOBO,” she sobs. “I really want to go to Twentynine Palms, California, but I don’t know how to get there!”

“Sapphire,” I says calmly. “I’ve got some trucker's 2004 Road Atlas right here under this tuna sandwich!”

“Really?” she says.

“Sure!” I says, handing her the maps. “Now have fun in California.”

God, I’m thinking. What would chicks do without me?

Bling

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"Sir," says Sapphire, closing the door to Ethan's office behind her. "I know you've asked me to come so you can try to talk me out of nuking Pianosa, but in a matter of weeks, those cicadas will-"

"Talk you out of it?" says Ethan. "Are you kidding?"

"I don't understand," says Sapphire, taking the seat in front of the desk.

"LOBO just put a bunch of his crap art up on eBay. It's completely worthless. I can't believe he's got an 'AA' in Graphic Design from Denver Business College." Ethan pauses. "Still, if LOBO was dead ... "

"Oooooh," says Sapphire, slowly comprehending. "Okay."

"I'll give you ten percent."

"Deal."

Ethan swivels in his chair, facing the window. "Then I'll have two bags of money. I might even have to hire someone to hold my cigar!"

Boom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know that every time you people come to Predator Press and see our fine art, you’re thinking “Wow, I would certainly like to have that piece mounted over my fireplace. I wish there was a way I could buy it.”

Well now you can.

I’m selling my entire private collection on ebay!

CLICK HERE

Predator Press Revealed!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, 'o loyal reader!

As promised, today is the day I dispel this 'shroud of mystery' by releasing high-resolution pictures of the entire Predator Press staff!



Phoebe:



Sapphire:



Ethan:



Mr Insanity:

And 'Yours Truly':