Go Fighty!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's a fact: people never give Predator Press any credit for the huge socio-economic and medical advances we have provided Humanity.

And how about the Science and Engineering?

Hm?

When we presented the alternative to 'Doggie Stairs' with our 160 horsepowered Doggie Centrifuge, did this fantastical technological advancement get mentioned in a Scientific American, Popular Mechanics, or maybe even a lousy Readers Digest?

No. We got "-but the dogs land in random places at crazy speeds!" blah blah.

So now where is Sports Illustrated on our groundbreaking 'Mag-Cat' Research and Development? My theory that cats -cunning natural predators equipped with lightning-fast reflexes, guile, and grace- are ideally suited for intense Air Hockey competition is gonna make us millions.

Just kiss my ass, Forbes.


***

First and foremost, the Air Hockey table -pointedly designed for humans- would have to undergo some minor modifications to provide for a suitable and level playing field for serious Feline Competition. So at great expense to you, our own Predator Press Scienticians magnetically reversed an Air Hockey table surface.

Unfortunately, cats are naturally highly-resistant to magnetism, and tiny little magnetically-repellant boots needed to be developed to respond to the magnetic fields. This realistically replicates the 120-decibel gravity-free Air Hockey environment for cats exactly as it would occur in nature.

We should have a good “regulation” set of these boots available commercially by Christmas. And while coming in at a hefty $850, you must remember that there are four ... plus we throw in our patented "This Side Up" polarity collar and a Buell helmet totally for free. Further, we think $850 is a small price to pay for any serious Air Hockey or cat safety enthusiast: once augmented with the $800 fire extinguisher mandated by California State, your cat will be howling past you on the freeway.

Four of our cats can get to Madison Square Garden from here in eight minutes.

-Theoretically. They cannot read maps, and are complete suckers for every Stuckey's they see along the way.

But truthfully I do not consider an insatiable Pecan Roll dependency a side effect of our regimented and complex training: for several months now, one of Phil's kittens (due to her inexplicable and irritable disposition I call her "Fighty") has undergone 1,074 hours of observation actually wearing the boots, and she finally acclimated well to her vastly improved mobility -even with the chainsaw attachments.

And let me tell you buddy, she hates Pecan Rolls.

Fighty -already a Mag-Cat first season veteran- is ready for some healthy competition. And she's virtually undefeated! Her 27-1 record was most unfairly despoiled by Barbarossa rubbing her fur backwards during the Winter Halftime Show last February; this triggered a static discharge resulting in one hell of bang, four molten transformers, subsequent rolling blackouts, two crashed satellites, an irrepressible odor of burning hair permeating everything in the Lab, and me spilling my coffee.

Now, the fire department gets cats out of trees all the time, right? When's the last time you saw a cat skeleton in a tree? But you call those jerks and tell them about your smoldering and pissed steroid-jazzed chainsaw-wielding cat magnetically attached to the side of a water tower and see what happens.

I swear those fire department guys are totally worthless.

Nonetheless, lil' Fighty today is an Air Hockey Champion nose-to-tail; just show her that plastic puck or a Pecan Roll, and she yowls, spits and hisses ...

(I should probably get her spayed.)

The Nature Versus the Nurtured

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“No, I will not teach you to play guitar,” I says to the Butterbean kid flatly. “I don’t know where you got the idea I play guitar in the first place. These are crazy rumors, spread by an obviously deranged individual. Probably a meth freak.”

Butterbean unslings his guitar on the porch. “Miss Terri said you used to be real good at it.”

“Terri knows better than to get addicted to meth,” I argue. “Shit. TMZ doesn’t even know we exist yet.”

“My mom says she’ll give you ten bucks a lesson.”

“Is this the same woman that insists you are ‘big boned’? I have serious doubts about her mathematical prowess. Tell your mom I want fifty million.”

Butterbean seems strangely skeptical.

"Maybe fifteen?"

"Your mom is a shrewd woman," I reply thoughtfully. "Tell her forty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty five is my final offer. Anything less would be cutting into my overhead."

“I don’t think she would go that high really,” he says.

“Then how about we compromise and just tell your mom I’m giving you guitar lessons?" I counteroffer. "We'll split whatever we get.”

“Seriously,” says the boy. “I want to hear you play.”

“Of course you do,” I says. “That’s what a lad I once knew insisted –almost verbatim- many, many years ago. ‘I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play, I want to hear you play.’ Christ you couldn’t shut him up about it. And then he quit drugs, fired David Lee Roth, started playing keyboard, and married Valerie Bertinelli.” I eyed the Butterbean kid warily. “This kind of knowledge can destroy your mind. Is Eddie Van Halen’s a fate you would like to share?”

“Who is Eddie Von Helsing?”

“See?” I stammer, almost speechless in frustration. “This is precisely what I mean. Eddie would go on to die broke and in utter obscurity. And worse than that, he died broke and in utter obscurity while having to listen to Valerie Bertinelli clipping her toenails … Crack! Crack! Crack! And have you seen Valerie Bertinelli’s toenails? Somebody is going to lose an eye with those things shooting all over the place.”

“What if I promise to stay away from Valerie Bertinelli?”

“It’s more than just Valerie Bertinelli's deadly aerodynamic toenails and shocking capacity for evil,” I says coolly. “Playing guitar is a strict discipline. A lifestyle. Yes. A lifestyle of long hours, bloody fingertips, and skinny guys named ‘Kirk’ and big-haired chicks named ‘Amber.’ A lifestyle of being woken at three in the morning by colliding trash can lids, and stringing your guitar in under eight minutes. A lifestyle of forcing people to listen to you play ‘Smoke on the Water,’ like, ninety jillion times.”

Punctuating the discussion, I scoop up the welding mask from the counter and strap it to my forehead. Pausing for a moment before flipping down the mask I ask, "I'm making lunch. Do you want a grilled cheese?"

"That's not really grilling them technically," Butterbean points out, eyebrows furrowed.

"Well, I’ve always considered the term 'grilled cheese' more of a guideline than a recipe. After all, there's no reference to the bread or the butter either." Flipping my mask, I crack the arc to life. "You know, say what you will about plasma. But nothing really brings out the flavor like a good old fashioned carbon electrode."

Butterbean cupped his hands to boost his voice over the noise. "Should you be doing that in a Snuggie?"

"It's hard finding footie pajamas in my size," I call.

"No. I mean isn't that thing flammable?"

"I can't wear the gear," I explain loudly. "That stuff chafes, and I have very sensitive nipples." Pulling my torch to the side, I flip my mask back and inspect the soapstone surface. "Man I hope Terri managed to find a company that will give us another fire insurance policy. Grilled cheese is hell on these countertops."

"You think they will cover making arc-welded cheese sandwiches?"

"Well if they have a better way to cook, I'd like to hear it." I look around thoughtfully. "You know, you're right ... I should torch the whole place just in case. I'm getting a little tired of this furniture anyway. Good idea."

"You can do that?"

"That's the whole point of having insurance. Why go through the whole hassle of moving when you can just get new stuff?" I switch off the torch. "They deliver and install it too. Just watch your spelling."

"Spelling?"

"Our last insurance guy got really pissed when I misspelled 'bathtub' as 'H-E-A-T-E-D-I-N-D-O-O-R-P-O-O-L' on the claim. But it was an honest mistake. My spelling acuity is a direct result of the American public education system. I'm the victim here if you think about it."

"So you can get in trouble for it?"

"Well … yes. It turns out some people are really, really touchy about arson. But this was your idea, remember?" I rub my chin, trying to remember if there is any gasoline in the garage. "And frankly I'm shocked you thought of that. If I ever went on trial for arson and insurance fraud, you better hope I never have to testify 'cuz I'm singing like a canary."

"I don't think it's a good idea then."

"I think it's a great idea!" I says. "We could make it look like an innocent arc welded cheese sandwich making accident. But I would need to make a video all the stuff in our house first. Know where any friendly rich people live? I want another Ming vase to put our umbrellas in."

"You've got a Ming vase? Really?"

"Four of them. We use them as trash cans. See?"

“These say ‘Made in China.’”

“Yeah. Ming, China probably."

"There is no such place as Ming, China."

"Look, it says ‘Ming’ right there,” I point. “Next to the picture of the guy fighting Flash Gordon. How can you possibly doubt its authenticity?”

“I think 'Ming' is supposed to reference an ancient dynasty.”

“Well I would hope these aren't crappy old ones, ” I says, inspecting the container closely. "Over the past century, China has come a long way in an effort to improve the quality of their products."

“Hey, look at this,” says Butterbean, peeling at the label. “The back of this ‘Made in China’ sticker says ‘Made in Korea.’"

“Maybe Ming has a factory there in Korea. You know … outsourcing. China is very busy crafting high end vases like these. Vases, and making pandas boink. Maybe China just doesn’t have time for labels anymore.” Reflecting on this, I add, “I’ve heard of some odd fetishes before. But pandas? That’s just plain weird.”

“Actually,” corrects Mister Smarty-Pants, “they are trying to breed the few remaining pandas to save the species.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I scoff. “Another common misconception. How do you explain all those freaky websites?”

“Websites?”

“Yeah. I’ve downloaded about fifteen hours of panda porn. You’re too young to see it. But I assure you with possible exception of the Kanji, this stuff has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's pure filth.”

“Wait,” says Butterbean. “You downloaded fifteen hours of panda porn?”

“It was strictly for educational purposes,” I says. “If you want to study a culture, there’s only so much one can learn from a couple of vases.”

“But if this is all true," Butterbean speculates shrewdly, "then pandas wouldn’t be an endangered species.”

“Pandas are too busy having sex to make babies.”

Butterbean stares.

“Oh no,” I says, rolling my eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me. Somebody gave you that whole speech on how you make babies having sex, didn’t they?”

“Well, yeah,” says Butterbean. "Mom and Dad said that-"

"Silence!" I command, dangerously close to a lot of unwanted mental imagery of Butterbean's parents rolling around and grunting like sweaty, greasy hippopotami with a background narration by Lorne Greene. 'Mutual of Omaha presents ...' Shivering slightly I persist, trying to come up with an example. "Look. Have you ever watched 'Forensic Files'?"

"That television show about when the police solve those murders?"

"Yes. You watch the half hour program, and by the end the solve the crime."

Butterbean nods expectantly. "Okay."

"Well there's another show called 'Missing Persons Unit.' Similar, but this show is a little less predictable because sometimes they find the missing person alive."

"Go on."

"My point is with 'Forensic Files,' they catch the killer. With 'Missing Persons Unit,' it's almost the same thing ... you watch them interviewing suspects, canvassing the area, dredging the river, interviewing more suspects, blah blah blah. But then after fifty-five minutes of watching all that time, energy, money and manpower wasted, they find the kid waiting tables in Hollywood hoping to blow Steven Spielberg to get their screenplay read or whatever."

"I'm not following you."

"Think about it. We walk away hating the kid that survived. For putting us through all that."

Butterbean nods, but I can tell he's not 'getting it.'

"If you're going to lie and make people think you are dead," I elaborate, "and you aren't dead, don't you think it should be incumbent upon all concerned parties to provide some closure? We can set a dollar amount for it. Let's say when the search costs more than $250,000 and the kid has been alive and safe the whole time, somebody has to die. For $250,000, I want a body. And it should go up from there. For $500,000, I want two bodies. And so on."

"But what does this have to do with sex?"

"We're not there yet. We're still talking about lying. And you have to preface a conversation about sex with a conversation about lying. Any honest adult male will tell you well-woven and elaborate lying is an intrinsic component of having sex ... unless he's lying because he's trying to have sex with you. But we'll get to 'Courtship' soon enough. Stop interrupting me."

"Okay."

"Now where was I? Oh yeah. I'm not saying wax the kid right there on the Spago salad bar ... this all has to be treated on a case-by-case basis. What if maybe the kid was running away from abusive parents, and they should be killed? See? By lying we've transformed the whole situation. People deserve -if not demand- being lied to, and it's in their best interest really. I'm happy, you're happy, and Steven Spielberg is really happy. We all walk away slaked in the confidence and comfort of cosmic justice well-served, and with vastly improved television as a byproduct."

"I gotta tell you, this is way different than the speech my parents gave me," says Butterbean. "Are there birds and bees in this one somewhere?"

“No," I says flatly. "You’re too grown up for those fairy tales. But the truth about babies is actually more horrifying than you could possibly imagine -maybe worse even than being raped by a pack of wild pandas! That's why your parents are distorting the truth,” I assert. "They are trying to protect you."

Pensive and rapt, the boy hung on my every word.

“If sex resulted in babies,” I began, “we would have stopped doing it a long time ago. The first caveman to find a melted Jolly Rancher in his pelt would have been the end of the whole damn human race.”

“Then where did I come from?”

“I doubt anyone really knows with one hundred percent certainty," I confess. "But it definitely was not from sex. I mean put yourself in everyone else's shoes. Would you have sex knowing there was a risk of having you? And I’ve seen your parents. Trust me. Those people aren’t having sex ... especially with each other. Blech.”

“Maybe there are spores? Like mushrooms?”

“Well that seems plausible," I concede. "But it seems far more logical for people to contract babies. Like syphilis or rabies.”

“So the pandas are immune to babies?”

“No. I’ll bet pandas are as susceptible as anything. If there’s a scarcity of baby pandas, it’s more likely due to them being delicious.”

Butterbean’s inquisitive look transformed instantly to horror. “You mean we are eating the baby pandas?”

“There's a Panda Express two blocks from here,” I shrug. “And have you ever eaten baby panda? It’s fantastic. It tastes like chicken.”

Suddenly, I realize that this conversation –if furthered pursued- might actually make Butterbean vomit, cry, or vomit while crying simultaneously. But no matter how desirous these potential outcomes might be, I would prefer none of these events to take place in my kitchen.

“You look a little pale,” I comment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Butterbean unconvincingly. He seemed a bit wobbly, and it occurred to me he might faint. Fainting trumps vomiting, crying, and vomiting while crying simultaneously in my kitchen, but he could hurt himself -and I wouldn’t be a very responsible adult if this were to occur when it was completely avoidable, would I?

“Would you like to try some baby panda?” I says, grabbing the almost novelty-large, craziest, jagged-looking knife I can find out of the wooden block. “I’ve got some in the freezer. It’ll take me five minutes if I arc weld it. You can have the ears. They're kinda small, but that's the part Hostess uses to make Ho-Hos-"

WHAM!

It was a clean fall, square in the center of the kitchen ... afterward the sight of which could only be described as a small whale having beached itself on the linoleum. I probably could have caught him, but I would have missed the comedy entirely and therefore couldn't. Plus I was thinking about my new invention: the Sea Skateboard.

See, what we do is we make a really big skateboard without wheels. But here's the kicker: the Sea Skateboard floats on water. You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. (I probably shouldn't have blogged this idea now that I think about it. People have a bad habit about stealing my ideas ... especially those shifty goddamn Hawaiians.)

Anyway. Once more concerned for the still-inert boy's safety, I poke him with the grilled cheese spatula until I'm convinced his vital signs are stable.

-And by the time he fully 'comes to,' I’m already on the phone with his mom.

“I think twenty bucks an hour is more fair," I explain, hardballing Butterbean’s mom over a terrible, static-addled connection. “This lazy kid was uncooperative and fell right to sleep during the lesson. If I'm going to take millions and millions of dollars in my time away from developing the Sea Skateboard, I deserve some kind of equitable compensation."

Butterbean groans. "Is that my mom?"

I put my finger to my lips to shush him quietly, and then cover the ear opposite the phone to hear better over the crackling background noise. "It's a really big skateboard without wheels that floats on water," I explain to her. "You could paddle around on it and ride waves or whatever. Shit ... you're not Hawaiian, are you ma'am?"

"What happened?" he asks, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

"Look," I says into the phone, trying to ignore him. "I'll only charge you ten bucks for this first guitar lesson, but look what I have to work with here ... this is the musical equivalent of smoking a cigar, drinking coffee and eating a box of Oreos in the dentist's waiting room. Your son would be better off doing something for which he was more genetically suitable. Like ..." Thinking quickly, I turn and look at the boy, still on the kitchen floor, for ideas. "Like, I dunno, becoming a perfume or something.”

Absently twirling the phone cord in my fingers, I see Butterbean sit up.

"Those poor pandas," the boy whimpered weakly.

"Shhh!" I says to him irritated, covering the phone mouthpiece. "I'm negotiating." Turning my back to him in order to concentrate, my attention returns completely to Butterbean's mom.

"So we have a deal then?" I ask. "Good. Now how much will you give me not to teach him ‘Smoke on the Water’?"

Space Rape

Predator Press

[LOBO]

This morning I flipped a cardboard box into the "Recycling" dumpster.

And in the brief span of time I saw triangular sun-illuminated dumpster contents, I saw like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining. And then the lid, as designed, shut by virtue of gravity.

"What the fuck?" I thought. "Jesus, that just looked like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining." Popping the dumpster back open, I thought "What the hell did I really see?"

It was at that exact moment that nine million pissed off bees attacked me.

But as you longtime Predator Press readers know, I am an honorary white-belt Master of the long-lost martial art form of Peking Duck: four or five bees stung my shirt, but I deftly locked myself in the trunk of my '74 Toyota Camry without a single sting to my actual flesh.

Still, I think all my neighbors are dead by now.

Phil Runs Afoul

Predator Press

[LOBO]



A victim of a five year plan to kidnap him, I have lost my sidekick.

:(

LOBO is a Mom (Day IV)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Everyone is always sayin’ “Bein a mom is sooooo hard,” and “Childbirth is blah, blah, blah, ...”

But don't be fooled; it turns out this whole "Bein a Mom" thing is the easiest thing on Earth. A transparent scam for Hallmark cards! Hell I haven’t even seen the precocious little scamp since Day 1.

-As a “chip off the old block,” I’m assuming she has taken initiative and enrolled herself in Elementary School or something.

LOBO is a Mom (Day III)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Stretching, Dave Harrison scratches his neck and remembers how overdue he was for a shave.

As a Tier Two Customer Service Rep for Southwest Airlines, he answered mostly calls forwarded up from people that initially take calls and field the routine issues.

And it’s true that as a “T2CSR” you get yelled at a lot.  But overall the T1CSR’s usually get flustered by some hostile treatment and overlooking some simple solution or policy.  To avoid this, Dave checks his computer screen preview of the issue prior to answering the phone.  Making an already-irate  caller repeat themselves too many times would be the equivalent of driving tanker trucks of gasoline into a volcano.

As a four year veteran of the Southwest Airlines Customer Service, he rarely saw an issue that surprised him anymore.

But this time the screen read:


“Customer wants to know how many Frequent Flyer miles he needs
before we hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen.”

Already reaching to the phone, he pauses and leans on his elbow instead, rubbing his temples, his eyes.  The CS1s are taking these notes superfast, “live” and often being distracted by the customer.  Sometimes a misplaced comma or something …

But doing this hundreds of times a day, Dave suddenly hears himself saying, “This is Dave Harrison.  How can I help you with your Frequent Flyer miles?”

”Hi Dave,” says a cheerful voice.  ”How many Frequent Flyer miles do I need before you guys hire armed bodyguards to prevent them from being stolen?”

“Your Frequent Flyer miles are perfectly safe with us,” replied Dave with a well-practice smooth.  Still, unsure if he was on track with whatever this is, his eyebrows furrowed.  “How many Frequent Flyer miles do you have?” he asked, fishing for information.

“I don’t have any yet I don’t think,” replied the caller.  “That’s my next question.  How do my Comfort Animal and I set up accounts and stuff?  I assume I have to buy my Comfort Animal a ticket.  But does she get miles too?  Or maybe a percentage?”

“No,” Dave replies.  “But are you sure you have to buy your Comfort Animal a ticket?  What is it?”

“It’s a ladybug.  In a jar with holes poked in the top.  Probably.”

Well away from the mouthpiece, Dave sighs.

“Where are you going?”

"We’re not going anywhere yet.  Well, not planning it anyway.  Just checking. Where do you keep our miles? Is there a vault or something ...?”

LOBO is a Mom (Day II)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, my little darling hasn’t made an appearance today.  Which is probably good, because I had a nightmare last night that she was the first of an entire brood and, utterly famished, dissolved me to a skeleton before I could scream.

All new parents want to be lied to about this harsh, jagged reality.  But my case is a little different because ladybugs are considered good luck.

I would have had the luckiest skeleton on Earth.

But there wasn’t a swarm, so it is likely I only have one.  That’s why I went out and got some Creatine Supplements, bodybuilding milkshakes, and occasional random naked steroids.  For the beginnings of an evil army of minions, a two thousand pound balding ladybug with shrunken testicles and rage issues is delightfully ironic.

I've officially named her “Rommel.”

LOBO is a Mom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As a cat owner –currently sans cat- a bug is kind of an event.

Particularly a flying one given the complexity of entering my lair.  The ladybug must have "hitched a ride" in or on my clothing.  And with good reason frankly; three weeks ago we had just settled down to our first good local deepfreeze.

But she -the ladybug- was fucked.  It was unsurvivable outside, and I didn’t have any plants for her to eat.  I didn’t even have any windows.

So I “googled” ladybugs, and found out that aside from aphids they are more or less omnivores.  There was generally water and an occasional dirty dish.  While I’m not hauling in foliage, I figure she had a better bet with me than the subzero temperatures.

But over the span of that week, she grew grayer and less colorful.  The last day she didn’t even bother to hide from me; she just hung on the ceiling.

And I was sad.  This tiny little thing had stabbed its way through a maelstrom of garbage inconveniently into my inner-circle of consciousness; she was certainly going to die one way or the other … maybe there was a greater dignity in having crushed her on sight in the first place.

I have vacuumed at least four times under the spot where the grey, unmoving carapace of the ladybug was last seen, and haven’t given it a thought since.

-But today I found the teeniest little ladybug drinking water from a drop in the bathroom sink.

Predator Press Interviews: Mark A. Rayner

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My devious plot to kill all the good authors so I can get a book deal has suffered a temporary setback: Mark A. Rayner, author of Marvellous Hairy, has been anything but forthright in regards to his actual location.

-Mislead by some rather sophisticated and formidable call-tracing countermeasures, I'm forced to conduct this interview from a payphone in Wyoming.

And let me tell you pal, getting into a phone booth in a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is no picnic.



LOBO: Mark, you've obviously chosen to try and make monkeys, you know, cool again -like back when "BJ and the Bear" inspired millions and millions of truckers to take them cross-country. But iguanas are cool, and kinda scary too. A book about superintelligent iguanas would be groundbreaking, and a rare victory for cold-blooded animals. Why monkeys? An iguana is an infinitely more practical pet for truckers if you think about it.

MAR: Actually, Marvellous Hairy is about a surrealistic novelist being turned into a monkey-like creature; they regress just some of his DNA back along the evolutionary tree to the point before we split from the chimps; but if you must know the truth, it's because I think we don't keep in touch with our monkey playfulness enough. (Present company excluded. I mean, obviously, with the ghillie suit and all. You know you can get those in Gor-Tex now, with collapsible almond branches?)

LOBO: Don't correct me on my own blog, Mark. What was that fancy thing you just did there?

MAR: What?

LOBO: That thing where you are using the "(" and the ")".

MAR: They are called parentheses. You -of all people- should probably learn how to use them.

LOBO: You think I don't know about parentheses? I once killed a man using parentheses.

MAR: Really?

LOBO: Absolutely. I hated that guy. Watch. "I want the garbage taken out (and everybody dead in five minutes)."

MAR: In five minutes? What did they do?

LOBO: They didn't know about your book!

MAR: Oh, well that's okay then.

LOBO: Is it that you're an atheist Mark? Hm? I mean you could have changed the guy into a praying mantis instead of a monkey. Is it a problem that the mantis thing is always praying? A praying mantis won't rip off your genitalia and throw it at you. I mean you just don't GET more pious than a praying mantis.

MAR: What about Capuchin Monkeys? Eh? They're named after monks. Or the sanctimonious Kneeling Baboons of Rogistan? (Not that I like them very much. Did you know I was once bitten by a radioactive baboon? It's how I got my super-powers.)

LOBO: See, there you go with the parent-things again.

MAR: Parentheses?

LOBO: Forget it. Was the Shute character in Marvellous Hairy based on David Letterman?

MAR: Largely, though I wouldn't want anyone to think that Denny the Lickspittle is based on Paul Shaeffer. No way. I would never disrespect the coolest man on TV. Paul is Canadian, did you know that? Oh, that's right, you don't believe in Canada.

Marvellous Hairy Excerpts
LOBO: Don't get me started on those old hokey legends of Canada. Do you think Canada exists?

MAR: Yes.

LOBO: But you're a teacher! Isn't that, well, kinda irresponsible?

MAR: Let' get back to the books.

LOBO: [exasperated sigh] One of my favorite elements of your writing is the meat of the stories hangs on a skeleton of philosophical poignence. Not to oversimplify, The Amadeus Net had the omnipotent and omniscient computer managing an idyllic utopia, and Marvellous Hairy had the specter of corporate power and greed gone to extreme. A common thread -humans struggling to morally catch up to their own rampant technological achievements- can often be spotted in your shorter works as published on The Skwib as well. Is this formulaic, or a happy byproduct of your writing style?

MAR: I wish I had a formula -- it would be so much easier. But to think that I struggle with each story, agonize over every character, groin myself every day to get the themes to flow with the plot and have it appear as formulaic . . . well, that just makes me want to slit my wrists. So, let's go with 'happy' byproduct.

LOBO: Having read both The Amadeus Net and Marvellous Hairy, they both have a vastly different "feel" from one another: The Amadeus Net seemed darkly serious while Marvellous Hairy seemed more playful. The fun you were having writing Marvellous Hairy was palpable. Would that be an accurate characterization? And if so, were there events between 2005 and 2008 that contributed to this shift?

MAR: Yes. That's quite accurate. Interestingly, you have to push the clock back about nine years for The Amadeus Net and seven years for Marvellous Hairy. I was primarily writing The Amadeus Net when I was an underemployed corporate drone in 1997, living in a small, yet charmingly feculent apartment, and working from notes that I had painted with a child's watercolour set the year I was being a Bohemian Gen-xer in Prague (1993). The first draft of Marvellous Hairy was written in three days in 2001, and was fueled almost entirely by scotch and raw existential anguish, and so, is hilarious.

Marvellous Hairy Podcasts
LOBO: The Amadeus Net juxtaposes a sexually-taut cast of characters in a clinical, computerized world. Cripes ... everybody is sleeping with everybody! Can you just leave out the computers next time? The computers create too much space between the sex scenes.

MAR: In my next book, the computers get in on it too.

LOBO: Have you repented to your clergy for all the sex in The Amadeus Net yet? I tried to get my penance reduced by ratting you out about it, but the church was skeptical: rather than take my word for it, they ordered a case of the books to be distributed among the congregation for review. Now they are all blind, and their palms smell like Gillette. All of this could have been avoided with the simple use of a praying mantis. Are you an atheist Mark?

MAR: If you mean, do I believe in a "Magic Sky Father", then yes. If you mean, do you believe in a "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey," then the answer is: maybe.

LOBO: Yeah, well, I'll try to put in a good word for you with Jesus. But I've got a feelin I know where He stands on the whole "Cosmic Unconscious Fun Monkey" thing.

MAR: Thanks.

LOBO: Why do my favorite characters always get killed in your stories? Are you doing that on purpose? And how do you know who my favorite characters are in the first place? Are you clairvoyant?

MAR: Yes. And by the way, don't get to attached to Suzie in my next book. Really, just save yourself the heartache. Oh, and you might want to get that mole checked.

LOBO: Thag is among my favorite of your characters. Was Thag based on someone or something in particular? And because I like him, how soon will you be killing him if you haven't already?

MAR: Thag is loosely based on the Gary Larson cartoon. Since then, he has become the proto-typical everyman. But he will not be taking the Big Dirt Nap anytime soon. Or will he? We will see how sales of Marvellous Hairy spike after this interview goes live to decide . . .

LOBO: While far from a professional author, I'll get something under my skin and scrawl it on the grocery receipt on my way home -more or less helpless against the urge. This annoys the other drivers, and their excessive use of the horn and graphic profanity makes it hard to concentrate. How does a Mark A. Rayner pour stories? Do you have a formal method -for example, a set time and space for writing?

MAR: I have a word count that I aim for every day. I usually miss it. This makes me feel bad. However, even if I am tortured by my under-achieving slacker Gen-X attitude towards work, the words eventually add up to something and then there is a manuscript that can be edited. This is how I have produced two novels in roughly seventeen years.

LOBO: There seem to be two methods of getting published. The first, self-publishing, requires around $30,000 and necessitates doing all your own promotion. The second is the 'traditional' method -the one where you essentially "get discovered" by a publisher. Because I'm short about $29,995 for the self-publication route, I endlessly submit manuscripts to publishers that are returned weeks later scribbled with profanity and smelling suspiciously of urine. Do you know of any particularly stupid publishers I should try? Like maybe one that buys a lot of scratch-off lottery tickets and extended warrantees?

MAR: I think you've described the entire publishing industry quite accurately. Enjoy.

LOBO: You claim to be a teacher in Canada. This has put me in the uncomfortable position of acknowledging that Canada possibly does exist, despite my numerous assertions to the contrary. Why would you jeopardize my credibility -right smack on my own blog- when you could have simply claimed to live in North Montana? Extremely North Dakota would also have been acceptable.

MAR: I always thought that Minnesota was pretty much like Canada. How about if I'm from Minnesota?

Marvellous Hairy Reviews
LOBO: How did you get out of playing hockey? Did they give you an academic waiver? I would have thought knocking out one of Mario Lemieux's teeth to be a Canadian rite of passage. Do other Canadians pick on you as a result?

MAR: I got out of it the old-fashioned way -- I broke my arm the first time I played. Crying like a little girl helped too. BTW, Mario Lemieux has almost all of his teeth. Nowadays the goal in hockey (ice hockey for all your British readers) is not to knock out a player's teeth, but to cause the rapid brain movement of a player's brain inside his (or her) skull. Much more civilized. (Especially now that women's hockey is so big.)

LOBO: There you go with those parentheses again. I'm starting to think I should consider them a form of attack.

MAR: (You would be a fool to think so.)

LOBO: In Marvellous Hairy, there was a thinly-veiled streak of dislike toward the college where the story is set. Was this a reflection of personal frustration with your own institution, or more an articulation of how people justifiably hate school in general?

MAR: It was more a reflection of how people can dislike something in general. And you'll note that all of the friends are quite fond of their undergraduate school (The Good University).

LOBO: Once again I'll remind you not to correct me on my own blog, Mark. So at what point did you realize you hated kids enough to be a teacher? And would you call it a vacuous rage against today's youth, or is it simple sadism?

MAR: Um, I teach at a university, so I only deal with adults.

Marvellous Hairy Freaky Adult Sex Stories
LOBO: C'mon Mark ... don't mince about. Those punks deserve nothing less than every ounce of your venom. And once all six of the people in Canada get their degrees from you, you'll be of no further use to the university either: they will force you to hastily pack your abacus, chalk, and all those Twisted Sister pins you confiscated. Then what? POW ... it's straight back to hockey. And how do you think Mario Lemieux is going to react when you come wandering in to practice after all these decades? Not too favorably I would guess. No sir ... not too favorably at all. Unless you think you've still got a Stanley Cup in you.

MAR: I don't have one in me. But I've been IN it, if you catch my drift.

LOBO: I would imagine there aren't a lot of monkeys in Canada. Wouldn't your life be simpler if you wrote about companies changing people into cocker spaniels?

MAR: Well, I'll tell you now the radioactive baboon that bit me was a resident of Elgin County, Province of Ontario, Dominion of Canada. (I know 'cause the cop showed me the Incident Report afterwards.) In fact, most of Southwestern Ontario is plagued by roaming bands of baboons -- and not just the red-assed, blue-nosed, Perfidia variety you're used to, no. There is the Souwesto Skint Baboon, always asking for spare change at the corner of major intersections, the White-Throated Hypocraboon, commonly found in churches and you really don't want to leave your children unattended with them. And don't get me started on the Ice Baboons.

LOBO: You know I've read the Travels of Marco Polo, and you know how many times Marco mentions Canada in it? Zero. Zilch. You know, I don't think I'm buying this Canada thing anymore. Fess up, Mark.

MAR: I don't think he mentions the United States of America either. Just sayin'.

LOBO: We probably just didn't want Polo takin the spotlight off of the Godless Yellow Hoard. In fact, we might have asked Polo not to talk about us, you know, until we could at least get some cool fast food and electronics. What can we be expecting next? I know it isn't going to the swimming pool -not the way you trash-talk Marco Polo. Are you working on another book? Tease us with some details. I'm warning you however: if it's a story about a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders exacting revenge on an evil corporation for turning a praying mantis into a cocker spaniel, we will all know you stole it from me.

MAR: I'm working on two projects: One is the heartwarming story about how a cocker spaniel saves a busload of nymphomaniac cheerleaders from the predations of gigantic evil praying mantis, who happens to be the CEO of a major bio-tech corporation. The other is mostly about a busload of robots having sex with cheerleaders pretending to be cocker spaniels (The Furries, they're called in the book), though there is something in there about bloggers being executed for the capital crime of plagiarism.

Predator Press Declares Self “Official Website of Atlantis”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well why not? We’re just as qualified as any of those other jerks.

-Predator Press has just as long a history of not proving things as anyone: I’ve been questioning the Legend of Bigfoot, the female orgasm, and the existence of Canada since this blog's virtual inception.

Cryptic, vague references to the lost city of Atlantis go back dozens of years -before many of us were even born. The philosopher Plato waxed on and on and on about it. But like everyone else in history Plato is now dead too, and as a consequence of not getting himself on television we no longer have any records of his teachings, nor any idea what he was talking about.

There's a lot of possibilties if you think about it. It might have been Plato's crafty way to trick Diogenes into taking a bath every once in a while. "Here," Plato might say to Diogenes. "Take this bar of soap as an offering, and they might let you drive a flying car!" Or maybe Plato was just really, really drunk.

Many scientists often concur that Atlantis is now in Las Vegas masquerading as a casino -but many scientists also do not agree with this too: this all remains to be decided by careful application of something called the “Scientific Method.” While not familiar with said “Scientific Method” per se, I’m almost certainly going to Pay-Per-View the event; how often do you see guys in lab coats beating each other with tire irons and gigantic robots in pursuit of The Truth?*

Man, science is cool.

In conclusion, I submit that nobody has provided more proof of the existence of Atlantis than we have in this post -thus Predator Press is most deserving of the coveted “Official Website of Atlantis” title.

Eh, plus whatever royalties and recognition that should come with this mammoth and expensive undertaking.


*It seems only fair to warn you, Predator Press scienticians have had a giant robot -well suited for obliterating other so-called “theories” in a spray of blood and bone- in production since 2008.

It even has cup holders now.

A Fairy Tale

Predator Press

[LOBO]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tramp!"


***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


***

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

He was smelling her.

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

The dragon stopped suddenly and reared up on its hindquarters.

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

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

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

“YOU DROPPED SOMETHING,” repeated the dragon.

“What!?” she demanded.

“MY JAW!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“SORRY.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure!” she replied excitedly.

***

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

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

They laughed, they cried.

The got hammered.

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

“WHO’S GOING TO PULL ME OVER?”


***

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

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

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

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

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

“UH HUH,” the poor dragon moaned.

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

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

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

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

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


***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was going to be a long night.


***

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


***

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

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

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

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

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

“WHAT?” the dragon finally asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he said sincerely.

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

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

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

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

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


***

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

“Is that a Pioneer stereo?” someone piped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


***

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

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

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

“Why?” he stammered.

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

At his Scrabble tiles.

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

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

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

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

Independence Day

Predator Press

[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-

Another knock. Louder.

-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!