Torque

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I suppose,” I says, pacing back and forth across the room, “you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here.”

Complainy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you haven’t found a job yet, and you’re slowly losing your mind?”

I stop and turn slowly to face my 16 year old daughter, but Screechy tugs on my leg. “Can I play Star Wars Legos?”

“No Star Wars Legos for anyone until I find out who did it,” I reply.

“Did what?” asks Terri.

“Something so vile and horrendous,” I says eyeing Shiftless warily, “the consequences will be dire.” I lean into a squirmy Shiftless and repeat in an ominous whisper, elongating two sylables slowly: “Die-re!”

“Mom he’s gone completely crazy,” says Complainy.

“Crazy like a fox!” I exclaim. “A crime-solving fox with X-Ray vision so’s he can peer into the dark hearts of evildoers!”

“Honey,” says Terri. “Would you please at least shave? You look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.”

I look down at my own chest. Without a mirror I can’t quite see the beard yet, but it occurs to me that I’m in rumpled pajamas, an untied bathrobe and slippers.

-In and of itself this isn’t so weird, but it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

I turn to Terri suspiciously. “And you sure seem to want to change the subject a lot!” I snap.

Shiftless is clearly losing patience. “So what is this ‘horrendous act’ you had to wake me up for?”

I grab the sheet and pause for a moment to build the drama. Then, in a quick, smooth motion I pull it away. Having revealed what was underneath, I point at it while facing them accusingly.

“What’s wrong with the television?” asks Terri.

My jaw almost falls open at her lack of observation.

I point again.

“Nobody messed with your crappy TV,” says Complainy.

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"There will be no fun in this household until justice is served!" Shaking with rage, I point a little closer to the upper left corner.

Terri squints. “What. Is it that fingerprint?”

Finally!

Rendered unable to speak by fury, I nod violently.

“So somebody probably touched the screen while we were moving it,” says Shiftless. “Heck it might’ve been you.”

“Silence!” I demand. “If 97 back-to-back episodes of Forensic Files have taught me anything," I says flatly, "It's that when you find a fingerprint there's been a crime. The last time I saw this television, it was snuggly chained between six mattresses and those six mattresses were encased in carbonite!"

“Can I play Star Wars Legos?” asks Screechy.

"-And I have further proof it was not me, as you have so clearly implied.” I show Shiftless the non-matching pads of my finger through my magnifying glass. “If you still think that print is mine," I add, "I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation we can go through later that illustrates the differences. My fingerprint is an ‘arch’ while this is clearly a 'whorl.'”

“Look honey,” says Terri from behind me. “It comes right off with a paper tow-“

“Stop!” I scream. “You’re contaminating the DNA!”

My Dead Neighbors

Predator Press

[LOBO]

What? No. I’m not dead.

But thanks for asking.

My neighbors unfortunately aren’t dead either. But you cannot fault me for the fact that Humanity has ground to a standstill by people that use a high-gloss hubcap as a candy dish.

I watch a lot of Forensic Files, and it turns out a) people that don’t live here think murder is bad, and 2) murder has become really difficult because of people that don't live here.

But “let not your hearts be troubled”: when my neighbors finally are dead, I’ll be the first to solve the murders, and Predator Press will have every nuance of the tedious, excruciatingly detailed exclusive story documented.

And while we're on this subject, Predator Press is currently hiring: we need a full-time Predator Press Blog Ink Inspector, which involves a lot of heavy lifting, and impromptu nighttime sub-duties.

Desire to be featured in an future exclusives is a plus.

-No criminal background check or drug test is required.

Exclusive: Did Ahmadinejad Murder Michael Jackson?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Following up on ABC News and CNN stories asserting online queries regarding the death of Michael Jackson nearly brought down the internet, Predator Press has uncovered what will doubtlessly be the largest international murder plot in the history of humankind.

"Michael Jackson's death caused an 'internet overload,' crashing popular sites such as Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, YouTube and Google," said a very scientific-looking guy. "When you consider that these are the primary methods of communication for Hossein Mousavi's revolutionary supporters, it's clear this was no accident."

Jackson's nose is anticipated to bring in upwards of $600,000 on eBay, and videos of Ahmadinejad militants training for the macabre mission on Mister Potato Heads probably exist.

Probably.

Predator Press: Exposed!

Predator Press

[Bill Curtis]

We’ve all watched the meteoric rise of Predator Press in the lucrative field of blogging, and the vast, glorious empire founded on this historic document by Ethan and LOBO.

But what do we really know about the origins of Predator Press?

I’m Bill Curtis. And today we’re going to go deep inside the seedy underbelly of what might be the most popular blog in the universe: Predator Press.

And what we found may shock and horrify you.


***

By appearance, Flandsa Ha’asasanba might have seemed like any other immigrant worker. When he arrived on Ellis Island with only eight dollars in his pocket, he was in pursuit of the American Dream: to work honest and hard until he encountered a situation where he could sue someone, thusly retiring in style and with a steady flow of Disability checks.

But Flandsa Hasasanba had an unrecognized talent for both turnip farming and writing; in his battered suitcase was a 600 page manuscript entitled The Turnip: Nature's Miracle Vegetable.

What do these seemingly disparate events have to do with Predator Press?

I’m Bill Curtis. And today we’re going to explore the strange twist that would entwine the dark fate of Flandsa Ha’asasanba to it forever.


***

June 6, 2003

LOBO, reputedly trying to peek up the dress of “that great big chick holding the torch,” found himself stranded on Ellis Island without the eight dollars required to ride the ferry back.

Time wore on. With a flowing unkempt beard and clothes reduced to frayed tatters, he spent the entire two hours demanding to speak to ‘Ellis’ to no avail.

Flandsa Hasasanba –who spoke no English- only smiled politely as LOBO barked madly. In turn -concluding quickly that Flandsa Ha’asasanba was one of those “Special People”- LOBO decided that Flandsa Ha’asasanba was safer as his own 'personal assistant' than he was wandering the dangerous and uncharted regions of greater New York City.

“Look at that, Friday,” said LOBO, pointing to the nearby coast with a large piece of driftwood.

“Flandsa,” Flandsa Ha’asasanba corrected smiling.

“Friday, you know I hate it when you interrupt me,” says LOBO. “Listen. Someday we are going to get off this rock. I promise you. As God as my witness, we will see civilization again!”

Flandsa Hasasanba grinned. Whatever this American hobo was saying, he certainly seemed very animated about it. Hungry, he pulled out his eight dollars and got in line behind other tourists at the hot dog stand.

-Flandsa Ha’asasanba woke several hours later with nothing but a headache, a piece of broken driftwood, and shattered hopes and dreams.

So just what happened on that fateful day of June 6, 2003?

I'm Bill Curtis.

Stay tuned.




***

This mystery might have died out completely had LOBO not emerged that very next year and started publishing on Predator Press.

-Publishing things that were raising some eyebrows.

It seems that numerous Predator Press posts bear a remarkable resemblance to Flandsa Ha’asasanba's opus The Turnip: Nature's Miracle Vegetable.

Obesrve the following excerpt from Flandsa Ha’asasanba's work:

"The turnip (Brassica rapa var. rapa) is a root vegetable commonly grown in temperate climates worldwide for its white, bulbous taproot. Small, tender varieties are grown for human consumption, while larger varieties are grown as feed for livestock."

-And compare it to the following uncannily similar Predator Press quote:

"Fat tourists should not tan in temperate climates worldwide. Their pasty, white bulbous flesh should not be exposed to human eyes under any circumstances. The really fat fucks should be used strictly as livestock."

-It's almost as if all the nouns and verbs have been simply erased, and replaced at random.

The similarities are unmistakable.

So did Flandsa Ha’asasanba, a clearly insane and homicidal turnip-farming immagrant prodigy, murder LOBO and steal his blog and identity?

I'm Bill Curtis.

And we may never know.

A Fine Whine

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Poink!

“Ouch!”

Scowling, I turn to LadyTerri.

“What the heck was that?”

Smiling coyly, she dangles a tiny stiff fiber in my face.

A gray hair.

“LIAR!” I scream, seizing at the damning evidence.

But she’s the picture of health and prepared for my reaction; scampering deftly out of reach, she’s fully exited the room before I can even rise to my feet.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” she singsongs from the kitchen.

Exhausted from rising suddenly, I slump back into my computer chair and try to catch my breath.

“That’s not funny,” I call. “There’s no proof that that came out of my head. You coulda pulled out any hair and swapped it with that monstrosity!”

But I know the truth.

And now she knows it too.


***

An impulsive murder-suicide plan is quickly ruled out: with both of us dead, who will raise the kids? And for that matter, what if the kids spot another gray on my corpse? Then I won’t be around to kill them too; my secret will get out, and I’ll be the laughing stock of the blogosphere anyways.

No, that plan has just too many flaws to be taken seriously.

The obvious alternative was readily available online. This little beauty [pictured left] retails at $18.99, and provides the perfect solution to hide my hideous deformity ... but it looks a bit like steel wool, and I'm staunchly against the abuse of robot sheep.


***

Why, O cruel God, hast Thou afflicted me thusly? Do I not go to church in disguises so Father Fritz won't kick me out anymore?

Why not pick on Diesel instead? We're exactly the same age, and -aside from you Divining me with a serious infusion of talent- Mattress Police will always have a lot more readers: he would totally blog about hoary flaming death toads raining down on him amidst Your mighty wrath! And as a self-taught linguistic expert, I'm almost certain he lives in New Jersey based on his dialect.

O Vengeful One, is smiting New Jersey with a few flaming toads too much to ask from your most faithful of followers?

I'll be in Slacker Heaven before you know it.

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.

Exclusive: Tank Johnson Linked to Jessie Davis Murder

Predator Press

Bobbie Cutts Jr., suspect in the double murder of Jessie Davis and her unborn child, may not have acted alone.

A preliminary investigation has revealed that Cutts had a personal relationship with the troubled Bears player Tank Johnson.


"The association is as chilling as it is clear," states world-renown documentarian Oliver Stone. "Cutts had a dry cleaner who cleaned the suit of a college roommate of a guy that once had lunch with an Aflac saleswoman who bought a used car from a guy whose brother once fueled it in a gas station less than thirty feet from a mailbox --a mailbox conveniently used to send written correspondence all over the United States, including but not limited to Bobbie Cutts Jr himself. The implications are staggering."

Stone continues on to allege that Cutts had watched numerous Bears games on television --many that included “Tank” personally—most likely looking for visual cues and instructions. In his interview with “Son of Sam” slayer David Berkowitz, Berkowitz surmised that “[Cutts] probably felt the neighbor’s barking dog was annoying and often unreliable, and turned to professional football like any other guy that wants to kill his wife”.

The neighbor’s barking dog and Adam "Pacman" Jones, while wanted for questioning, have not yet been formerly charged with any involvement.

Oh Darling

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

I haven't been able to write very frequently lately; my job has me traveling a lot.

So a six hour delay had me arriving from Quebec at the Dash Cunning International Airport at 9:00 pm.

Then my car broke down.

I ended up dragging myself and my luggage in the house at 2:00 am; LOBO and Phil, still house-hunting since the fire, were sleeping soundly on the couch.

The last thing I remember was collapsing on my bed face-first, and dreaming fitfully of inane conversations in Spanish.

Then my cell rang.

I answered groggily to a hideous, blood-curdling screech I haven't heard since I was married.

Oddly enough, it was my ex wife; she neglected to fax an annual document to the courthouse, and this caused a delay in my alimony payments to her.

I mean who the fuck pays alimony these days?


***

Now when you get divorced, doesn't that mean explicitly that you don't have to wake up like this anymore? Isn’t it tacitly implied? I paid a lot of money for that divorce. That was a damn fine divorce I might add: if I was going to get fucked, I was going to score some dinner and dancing first.

We even threw a party.

Yet here she is.

If I listen too long, I decide, she will make me gay.

I hung up, and grabbed my bags.

Fuck this. I'm going back to Canada.

Do I have to pay alimony in Canada?

As I struggled my bags though the hall the phone rang again, and LOBO sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey," he yawns cheerily.

I toss my ringing phone into his lap.

"It's for you," I says, leaving.

Divorce, my friends, is a complete rip-off.

Go with murder.