Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Sergeant Bellows was a short, tough looking guy. Squarish. Looks like a bulldog twirling a cigar in his mouth.

So far, of all the potential recruits for today, he's only had to refuse one: some guy named Cunning tried to sneak in with a broken pelvis.

The quota for the day already met, he quietly listened to LOBO with some interest, leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head.

"So I got my cotton plants growing, and I'm trying to find polyester plants so I can just make the T-Shirts right from my house." LOBO strokes his chin in thoughtful distraction. "Now I'm worried about security issues: industrial and national espionage. With $200, I've got to find a way to get rid of those surveillance satellites." He pulls two tiles. "So I think What about the Venus Fly Trap?", he continues in animated triumph. "I mean plant a bunch of em around my place, and feed 'em live cattle and steroids."

LOBO places his tiles on the board. I-T.

Silently, Sergeant Bellows leans forward and places his own tiles --T-O-U-R-N-I-Q-U-E-T-- and after collecting fifteen more tiles, he resumes his contemplative listening.

Eyebrows furrowed, LOBO examines his tiles as he continues. "Yeah well, suddenly my commie-pinko neighbors are complaining," he scrunches his face in sardonic mockery. "All day and all night, I'm hearing 'they're too ugly', and 'the leaves are fallin in my yard', and 'has anyone seen my kids?'" He grabs his tile and spells O-N at the tail of 'bludgeon'. "And that's why I think we should go to war with Russia." He pauses. "You can authorize that, right?"

Sergeant Bellows builds on LOBO's "ON", making it PANTHEON. "Oh sure," says Bellows. The score is now two hundred six to eight in the stoic sergeant’s favor. "This is the Bush Administration. We'll just tell the President it was his idea in the morning."

The great cigar swivels to the other side of his mouth, "The president is always way gung-ho after his Pop Tarts."

Semper Fi

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Yeah, well how are ya buddy?" I asks.

"Well, okay I guess," says Ethan over the phone. "How's Vegas?"

"Really fun, I suppose," says me, twirling the curly hotel phone cord in my fingers. "But we've hit a few little snags."

"You're going to make me late for work," says Ethan. "Gimmee the short version."

"Well," I says. "We crashed the airplane, Dash and Sapphire got married, Predator Press is 352 trillion dollars in the hole, and Russia has declared war on us."

"Dash and Sapphire?"

"Yeah. Weird, eh?"

"Well, try and have a good time. And stay out of trouble."

LOBO winced. "Would enlisting in the United States Marines constitute trouble? We're hammering out an alliance with a recruiter right now." LOBO turns the mouthpiece away and winks at the recruiter. "This'll only take a sec."

"You're enlisting?" says Ethan.

"Well, I'm at war with Russia, and it turns out these 'Marine' guys have a lot of stuff to have wars with. I mean these guys are way beyond us when it comes to planet-busting. Seems like a no-brainer."

"Well," says Ethan. "Go ahead. But if you do go full-on Global Thermonuclear don't touch anything until I get there."

"Deal!" I says excitedly.

***

Ethan was now very late. He poured his coffee into a plastic 'commuter' cup, and --short of time-- he skipped his breakfast cereal in favor of some granola bars in a box on the kitchen counter.

And for a strange moment, he would have sworn he heard the word "Wuss!", taunting him from the cereal cabinet ...

We Will Fight in the Shade

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Legless Jim read the headline from May 13:

"Putin Calls USA 'Hungry Wolf
that Eats and Listens to no One'"
LOBO freaked.

"Look!" he insists. "We were all hammered at Froggo's pad, and after three in the morning I can't remember a damn thing. I woke up on the tennis court, half-naked and covered in lipstick and whipped cream."

"Uh huh," says Legless Jim.

LOBO looks at his boots in shame. "Suddenly, Argentina was legislating UN sanctions against me." He sobs into his hands. "I swear to God I didn't know that was Putin's whipped cream!"

"Take it easy man," says Legless Jim. "I mean it's the UN for Chrissake. It's not like it's Rent a Center ..."

"Take it easy?" says LOBO, wiping tears. "Russia just declared war on me! I love Russia! Russia is second-to-none when it comes to--" He pauses, thinking.

He looks to me, but I got nothing.

"Alright," he says finally, tears drying. "Screw those bastards."

"So you're going to war with Russia now?" I says.

"Don't be silly," he replies. "I can't whip Russia by myself." He throws his arm over our shoulders.

"We're going to war with Russia."

Something Else

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Admiral Crunch, surly, cracked the whip on Lucky the Leprechaun with an animal ferocity.

From Admiral Crunch's brig, deep in the belly of the ship, Lucky's cries could be heard for a half a mile.

In defeated agony, Lucky hung limply, wrists tied overhead. His back was exposed --green jacket stripped open in the back-- revealing bloody, inflamed crisscrossing tears zig-zag the pale flesh. Salty sweat poured into the deep wounds, and Lucky's legendary Irish pride and defiance completely collapsed as he sobbed openly, begging for mercy.

"Feelin 'lucky' now, bitch?" growled the newly-promoted Admiral.

"Sir," Mr. Armani interrupted timidly. "We have evidence that Predator Press is on the verge of bankruptcy."

Admiral Crunch's eyes narrowed as he paused. He rolled up the whip and put it on the table, calmly measured, thinking quietly. "You have proof of this?" he asked in a barely-controlled voice.

"Oh yes!" says Mr. Armani. "They just posted about it earlier today." He turns his monitor so the enraged Admiral could see it better. Then he double-clicks his Explorer icon, prompting an AOL logon screen. "This might take a bit."

"Bankruptcy, eh?" asked the Admiral, twirling his singed mustache.

"Yes," says Mr. Armani. "And LOBO is right here in Vegas, even as we speak!"

"LOBO's an idiot," said the Admiral coolly. "What we have to do is put a stop to this nonsense forever."

Mr. Armani smiled. "I agree."

"Find me Mister and Misses Dash Cunning," commands Crunch.

"And have them dispatch of LOBO sir?"

"No you fool. We have to kill this beast right at the head." He draws his cutlass and holds it to Mr. Armani's throat.

"We're going to have to kill Ethan."

Cheap Thrills

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

I'm forced to admit that without Dash haranguing us on expenses, we've been taking certain "liberties" with the Predator Press budget.

Legless Jim, a whiz with numbers, rapidly typed into the calculator. Finally, he rips off the tape and inspects the digits at the bottom.

He whistles.

"Says here Predator Press operates at a deficit of roughly three hundred and fifty-two trillion dollars annually."

"Wow," says LOBO, despondent. "A few more years of that and we'll really be screwed."

"We could have a bake sale," I says.

"Can any of us cook?"

The three of us looked at each other.

"Not me," says LOBO. "When I poured milk on my Cap'n Crunch this morning, it burst into flames." He started pacing the floor. "It worked out okay for the Captain, though. He got a Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service medal, and was ultimately promoted to Admiral."

He stops and whirls on us. "C'mon guys. This is serious. If Predator Press goes belly up, the entire internet will collapse under the vacuum in a fiery hellstorm of molten plastic, cheap Ebay crap and junk email ... Kids'll start going back to books an learnin stuff, reckessly doin shit-tons of homework instead of downloading illegal music and pornography from chatrooms loaded with creepy perverts. We need a good, solid plan. Humanity is depending on us!"

Legless Jim scratched his chin. "Why is it I have the feeling that we'll sit here brainstorming for hours, and this feeble plotline will never even come up again?"

"Oooooo look!," exclaims LOBO. "A shiny object!"

Runnin With the Anvil

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

"Nope. Dead, dead, dead", said Legless Jim as he read through the newspaper. "Says here the guy whacked an exports magnate ‘an stole over two million bucks. And then the dumbass goes and overdoses in a motel room."

"Thank God," says LOBO reading over his shoulder. Ethan has given me strict orders not to let LOBO read the newspaper without supervision; last time he did, he got a paper cut on his thumb and had to wear a giant cone on his neck to stop him from chewing on it. "This guy was obviously a menace to society."

In the casino lobby, they were filming a new episode of The Shield, and we were invited to watch. In this episode, David Lee Roth was introduced as the newest member of the "Strike Team".

"Wow guys!" says DLR, reading the teleprompter. "Thanks to me, we're the biggest, sexiest, wealthiest, most effective law enforcement unit in the whole world. Nothing can stop us now!"

Then, from behind, Lemonhead puts a pillowcase over Diamond Dave's head, and Vic and Shane beat him to death with shovels.


***

Among Dave's entourage, a bevy of beautiful babes, one girl recognizes LOBO.

"Aren't you--?"

"Never seen you before," insists LOBO, nervous.

"No, you're that guy from--"

"No I'm not," he says emphatically. "You must be mistaken."

"No," she smiles. "You're 'Bolt Upright', the mailman in The Hills and Thighs!"

LOBO sighed. "Traci Lords promised me I would get an Emmy --or something that kinda rhymes with it-- if I just rang the doorbell with a certified letter. But then Jeanna Jameson and Catalina Cruz took off their clothes and started making out."

We were amazed. "Well, what happened then?" I asked.

"I reported them for postal fraud."

The Last Command

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glitz and glamour. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.

It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.

She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.

On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.


***

In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched --almost impossibly small-- in the corner behind the door.

In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.

Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."

Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.

And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.

"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."

She sobbed into his chest.

"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"

"No."

She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled the wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.

As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."

Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.

Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.

"Wait," she protested.

In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh --it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care-- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.

Another car door slam.

"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.

Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.

Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.

You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.

"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"

Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".

Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."

As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."

The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.

The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.


***

In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.

And connections for that matter.

He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.

A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"

Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.

"We know you're in there!"

A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.

"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."

Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.

Trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.

And I ain't telling you shit.

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"Oh holy crap is this armor itchy" said Jimmy Orlando, standing like a crucified Christ as aides removed his complex armor. "And who the hell was that slob playing The Black Knight this week?" he demands.

"Hayden Christiansen sir", says the guy removing his plastic carapace.

"Well someone tell that hack that it's 'spin, thrust, turn' not 'spin, thrust, compile grocery list'," says Jimmy Orlando. "Had he ever leaned to read, he could plainly see that in the script!"

Taking a glass from a flunky, he drank deeply. Scowling suddenly, spat it over it's deliverer. "What the hell is this?" he growled. "Desani?"

"No you bitch," says Chip, dripping. He smiles reassuringly, tilting his hips. "Would it cheer you up to know that Fritz sent you flowers this morning?"

"Oh that Fritz," said Jimmy, swooning slightly. "I'll bet it's an apology for all that 'sex-change' nonsense."

"Jimmeee," said the handler removing his codpiece, concerned. "You're bleeding".

Jimmy Orlando rolled his eyes. "Well I'm not surprised, being forced to work with no-name incompetent talentless 'acting' swill." He sees a single drop of blood roll down his thigh from a quarter-inch cut. "You can bet this Heyman Christmasman will ... never work ... in ... Vegas ... aga--"

Jimmy Orlando fainted.

A Flimsy Pretext

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Watching a jousting exhibition at Excalibur, LOBO and Legless Jim were covered head to toe in tourist souvenirs.

Legless Jim was quiet and contemplative; having bought Brad Pitt's legs, he could no longer be called "Legless Jim" and needed to come up with a new nickname.

"How about 'Blind Jim'?", asks LOBO, offering his Excalibur sunglasses.

"Can you really forgive ten years of debt to Las Vegas?" I asked over the cheering crowd.

"Sure," says LOBO confidently, sipping noisily from the bottom of his Excalibur flagon of Diet Excalibur Pepsi through a green curly Excalibur straw, jammed tightly against the tiny Excalibur umbrella. "It's a well-known fact that these Las Vegas guys are really generous and forgiving at heart. Those mobsters and stuff are all made up Hollywood eye-candy to disguise the soft-hearted and selfless nature of your average casino owner."

The lead character was on the field. The tall, handsome young blonde guy in armor was dispatching six big thugs in a fantastic flurry of buzz-saw swordplay.

"See?" says LOBO, dropping his Excalibur fries in excitement. "That is how my stunts in LOBO: The Motion Picture should look." He sticks his tiny plastic Excalibur sword in my chest. "Remind me to give George Lucas a call."

With an invisible Excalibur pencil, I pretended to write that down on an invisible Excalibur pad.

Distracted, my Excalibur nachos had long since gone cold and soggy. I decide to breach the subject of my preoccupation. "Right before we crashed our plane into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers --causing Las Vegas to spontaneously and inexplicably forgive ten years of gambling debts-- you were saying something about our, uh, our matching birthmarks."

"What?" says LOBO. "Oh. This." He turns his forearm to bear the curious birthmark and flicked it off with his finger.

Stunned, I turn my arm to my own birthmark. Rubbing it with my fingers, it started to peel off.

"Ethan has a trademark on the kit." LOBO explained. "You never know when a bunch of adhesive birthmarks might come in handy."

The crowd cheered as Prince Valliant somersaulted into furious combat with The Black Knight.

"So you're not my father." I sigh in relief.

"I didn't say that." says LOBO.

But you've never even slept with Sapphire."

LOBO smiled wistfully. "Not yet."

My face soured. The repulsive thought of mom and dad having sex made my mind slam shut like a trap, punctuated by the sound of Prince Charming and the Black Knight clashing steel.

"Look." says LOBO. Sensing my apprehension, he patted my shoulder assumingly. "You have to lighten up. And stop asking so many questions." He sighed. "You'll go crazy!"

"I suppose you're right," I said.

"Cohesive themes and good, solid plotlines are such a hassle," he whispers. "They completely mitigate the possibility of anything weird ever happening."

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]


When it came to the Press Conference, LOBO was magnificent. I was watching his reaction on the news from the furthest thing on the face of the Earth.

A nearby church.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, bowing, waving his hands to silence the flashing and scribbling throng. "Freedom-loving citizens of Las Vegas, I've never been on TV before, so please remember that if you break into a musical number, I will kill you all".

Suddenly spotting the hot blonde from CNN he adds, "Except you".


***

On television, he seems to be rather conspicuously flipping through some index cards as "Legless Jim" asks a guy in an Armani for a quarter.

Ignoring Jim, the Armani guy pauses to watch the broadcast, brashly blocking our view.

LOBO continued, as I heard on "Legless Jim's" transistor radio: "As the hundredth plane crash into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers, I would like to thank MGM for celebrating the occasion by forgiving ten years of Vegas-wide gambling debts."

It was then that "Legless Jim" --sobbing tears of joy-- punched "Mr. Armani" square in the nuts ...

Lovefool

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After centuries, mass transit was not yet perfected.

Particularly in the case when everyone that works on it is dead; Max, Brighta and Vetter were kicked off a full half of a mile before reaching the home of The Crone, and no transfers were issued.

In secrecy, they observed The Crone: a spitting, toothless, bitter old woman, quietly puttering around her yard. "Where the Hell are those jerks?" she would complain, picking weeds from her vegetable garden.

Impatient, Brighta burst forward. "Madam, we are those jerks. In the name of King Casio, you and all--"

"Yes, yes," cackled The Crone. "Here to rape and plunder, eh?"

"Uh, no. Actually--"

"Says right here," Max interupted, unrolling an official-looking scroll from his breast pocket. "Find and conquer Towndaleburgville. Rape, pillage and plunder. Signed King Casio." he re-rolled the document and returned it to his coat. "Now, Vetter always takes 'plunder'. And I've got dibs on 'pillage' ..."

The Crone smiled, flirting toothlessly, flashing her dagger-like eyelash.

"But I don't want rape this time!" cried Brighta. "You always take rape!"

"Not this time."

"Can I just do the horse?"

The Crone started buttoning her blouse. "Listen you jerks. You need a country to invade, and I need an invaded country to live in." She spat. "What we have to do is find a way to defeat the dragon."

Brighta whined "I don't know how you expect to get laid if you call your genitalia 'The Dragon' ... "

"No, dumbass. We need to fight evil. Therefore, we need to locate an ultimate wanton cesspool of debauched and sinful desire, and find someone that is excelling in such a dangerously evil place."

"You hoo!" a familiar female voice called from the back. "Old lady, I can't find my bikini top!"

Max drew his sword. "What's that vile woman?" he threatened. "A trap? A vile ogre, bent on pounding our bones into a fine, pasty pulp to be squeezed though a cheap screen door--?"

"That's Princess Phoebe. She's sunning by the pool."

Somewhere, barely out of sight, Beautiful White Stallion fainted dead away with a huge crash.

"Alright I call bullshit!" exclaimed Brighta as they walked around the dilapidated shack. He pointed at his counting fingers, "Princess Phoebe was most plainly killed in 'A Fairy Tale' released by LOBO in 1999 ..."

All became quiet as Princess Phoebe climbed out of the heated indoor pool. Shaking her waist-length dark hair, droplets of water ran down her well-oiled curvy features.

And for a heated indoor pool, wow was it cold in there.

"My God!" said Brighta. "She looks delicious. And let me tell you, I've eaten my share of people--"



***

"There!" The Crone pointed at the Crystal Ball. "That's a goddamned hero."

As they all watched in the glass, a single man leapt and bounded from horse to horse, slaying inept attackers left and right.

Brighta whistled. "Did you see that? That was goddamn amazing!"

"Why are you showing us this, woman?" asked Max. He wasn't paying attention. He was watching Pheobe.

"Because that's our dragon-slaying hero dumbass."

"Why are you calling me a dumbass?" asked Pheobe. She wasn't paying attention. She was watching the valiant knight in the crystal ball.

The Crone sighed. "Because he's the only hope for the future of Towndaleburgville!"

"So where do we find him?"

The Crone turned the ball over and shook it. When the snow settled, she pointed.

"Says here, 'Las Vegas' ..."