Predator Press
[LOBO]
Wha-? Almost a
week since my last post?
Well as difficult as it must be to imagine, I upon occasion get bored with myself. Which is no excuse, I suppose; millions and millions of
Predator Press readers are clearly
not bored with myself, and I don’t want them showing up here on my my lawn, holding vigils and immolating themselves.
I am fine.
Just bored.
But as they say, “Bored hands are the Devil’s workshop"
-I need to snap out of it, lest I fall into the vile, slippery clutches of
Lucifer!
-So when I found out that my buddy Chris over at
Angry Seafood had a Death Star, I was all ears.
“Can I drive it?” I asked.
“Hell no you can’t drive my
Death Star,” replied Chris. “You would probably scratch it or something,”
“You could take it out to some unoccupied part of the galaxy and
teach me,” I whine. “I’ll be real careful.”
“Do you know what would happen if you got busted driving a Death Star without a license?” Chris counters. “They would probably impound it.”
“Fine,” I concede, fishing in my pocket for my cigarettes. “I’ll get my license first.
Then can I drive it? I want off of this dump of a planet in the worst way. And the option to blow it up? Oh man …”
“You want to blow up the Earth?”
“Do I
ever" I says, excitement mounting. “That would be freakin
awesome. I could do it on the Fourth of July. We could have a barbeque, and watch the whole thing on a giant plasma screen.”
“Wouldn’t you miss Earth?”
“
Miss it? Shit.
This dump? Don’t be silly.
Nobody would miss this place.”
“What about the people that live here?”
“Well with the Swine Flu in full swing I have my doubts Humanity will even make it to 2012, and that's when all those Mayan Gods are coming back to kick the crap out of us,” I explain. “And hey, no revenge-seeking Mayan god in its right
mind would pass up the opportunity to have a Death Star. I would be in a perfect position to destroy the rest of Humanity
for them, thusly getting on the Mayan gods' good side.” I touch the lighter flame to the cigarette tip. “I think being the only surviving human could be a good career move for me,” I says, exhaling smoke. "And if nothing else, at least
one of us is left," I shrug.
“You can’t smoke on my Death Star,” Chris points out, unrolling the blueprints. "It’s not finished yet. It’s still being painted, so there are crazy fumes everywhere."
“Huh,” I says disappointedly. “Hey, are you married to this whole ‘gun metal gray’ color scheme? It’s depressing.”
“It’s just a primer,” says Chris. “But I was thinking black. You know -so’s I can sneak up on stuff in space.”
“Ugh,” I says. “Every Death Star in
space is black. I think you should, I dunno,
pimp it out or something."
"Black enhances the intimidation factor," Chris points out.
"Look I almost got a 'C' in my college psychology class, so you should listen to me on this. Intimidation or no, if you don’t find a way to incorporate some -I dunno- cheerier pastels or something, your Stormtrooper Suicide Hotline is going to be on fire 24-7. And you’ll
never attract tourists, except for maybe those creepy Goth people. And those creepy Goth people don’t spend much money playing Blackjack and stuff on vacations -all their money goes to raves an nose rings an crap. Goth is a euphemism for
broke. And 'broke' is not intimidating, no matter
how many nose rings it has.”
“Look-” says Chris.
"Do you know what you get when you cross a dead hippie with 30 years?"
"No."
"Goth."
“I’m not going with pastels," Chris argues. "It’s a
Death Star.”
“And that’s another thing,” I add. “That is
really depressing. I mean the word ‘death’ is right in the
title. How about ‘
Molecular Liberator’ or something? I would play Blackjack at a place called ‘Molecular Liberator,’” I sniff. “I’m just sayin.”
“There aren’t any casinos on my Death Star,” says Chris, patience worn. “It’s a
weapon. We don’t have
room for casinos.”
“No
room?” I says incredulous. “Look at those huge unfinished spaces and gaps. You could fill those with
millions of casinos.”
“Those are for the engines.”
“Engines? What the heck does this thing need
engines for?”
“So it can
go to the planets I want destroyed.”
“And have you seen the price of fuel lately?” I challenge. “Oh jeez Chris, you would just be pumping money into Al Qaeda. You’ve got this all backwards. You need the enemy to come to
you. You know, offer card-carrying Rebellion members free rooms, extended credit lines and continental breakfasts. Then
pow, you steal their credit card numbers, take their money and wreck up their credit ratings. Thusly bankrupted and impoverished you could make ‘em hookers, prostitutes, hookers
and prostitutes, heroin mules, Starbucks employees,
anything."
"I dunno," says Chris. "I rather like that whenever I want to blow up a planet, I can just hop in and
go there."
“C'mon man. Killing people with cinderblocks and pointy sticks the good old fashioned way is far more cost-effective. We've been doing it that way for millions of years."
"You have a point," says Chris. "But my way seems less cruel and more tidy somehow."
"You have to stop taking pity on these people with this 'instant planetary vaporization' crap. It’s not
your fault those jerks are rebelling against you and need to be exterminated, is it? And if they are trying to kill
you, why should you pick up all that added expense?"
I put out my cigarette in the ashtray, blowing the final drag sideways.
"Instant planetary vaporization should be an exclusive premium only worlds we
like can enjoy."
"Minus the mobility," argues Chris. "Why not just stick to luring our enemies to
Earth then?"
Glancing cautiously in all directions, I lean in close and whisper.
“WalMart!”
*
* In advance, I don’t know what "Evil" the good people at WalMart and/or their fine products have wrought upon mankind to promt this story. In fact, I don’t know what Evil has wrought upon mankind in the first place -I mean aside from this whole WalMart thing, Evil has done nothing to me personally. Further, I think with some counseling and therapy me an Evil can work this thing out if Evil stops bein such a dumbass.
See ya at WalMart, bee-yatch.
He stared down at me for a second, thinking carefully.
