Predator Press

[LOBO]

MY mom taught me two things in life: never trust whitey, and how to use Morse code.

Unfortunately, the brain cells that contained that information were rapidly promoted to Respiration and Pulmonary Activity after that Def Leopard concert in 1984.

So I'm hoping I'm tapping out:

"Victory Is Declared! 2,000 soldiers deployed successfully. Without a single shot fired, they have melted into the Russian community. Assimilation is so complete, the Russians are already dressing and acting like our soldiers. Will drive the ship back to US when tide comes in. Also will want to talk about this Brigadier General uniform ... it's itchy. Plus I look better in softer tones apparently. Can I just wear a pirate hat? Anyways, helpless at sea with 35 trillion dollars worth of US war machine and military secrets, so hope to 'see' (haha) you soon. Yours Truly, Brigadier General LOBO."

When the Russian subs surfaced on the port side, I started getting nervous.

But when the Superintelligent Giant Squid snatched them up and gobbled them whole --laughing his mirthless laugh as the mighty hulls burst in his powerful grasp-- I had to change my shorts.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

The War Room was a living, breathing entity during the crisis.

"Sir, the SS Johnson has gone down in the San Francisco Bay," said Corporal Huett.

General Hamms scratched his forehead. "The Johnson? Isn't that the one with all those damned 'Village People'?"

It was almost a rhetorical query: he knew the ship's name well. For weeks he had suffered the sleepless, quiet dread of this particular aircraft carrier appearing on the Iraqi horizon. "How did this happen?" asks the General.

"The last report we have was from Commander Fritz. It details some kind of problem with configuring the tanning beds to the nuclear reactor." He pauses. "2000 souls presumed lost"

"2000 gay souls, right?"

"Presumably."

An officer wearing a headset interrupted. "Sir! It's the President on line three."

General Hamms sighed deeply as he picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he answered rigidly. "Yes sir. Right in the Bay." A pause. "2000 sir." He nods. "Yessir. All fruitcakes. Mostly democrats, and maybe a few bonus Protestants too."

"Sir!" snapped the soldier. "We have the interior decorator responsible for sinking the vessel on line four."

"He survived?"

"Apparently."

"Well get that boy out here!" the General demands. "He's a goddamned national hero!"


***

It turned out that the SS Johnson had indeed sunk, but the water was only a few inches deep. So LOBO stood staring out over a throng of pastel-colored capri-cut camouflage khakis and silk Aloha shirts as he received his telephoned field promotion to Brigadier General.

And sadly in front of 2,000 soggy seamen, he was ironically unable to think of a single joke to tell.

He picked up his issue of Playboy --LOBO was rarely seen anymore without a copy of Playboy or Juggs ever since the induction ceremony-- and jammed it in a militant fashion under his arm as he looked out over the bridge.

The visible billboards were all in Spanish.

LOBO doesn't speak or read Spanish.

So this is Russia he thought. A mere fifteen minutes at sea, and we're here already.

He turned to the group. "Gentlemen, we have arrived. And as the current ranking officer, I see no reason not to continue the invasion as scheduled."

The jazzed crowd cheered.

He turned to the bay, determined, and slapped the Playboy loudly on the wet deck.

"Alright boys. Start the musical number!"

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

So we're on the maiden voyage of the SS Johnson, and Private First Class Curr has been assigned to redecorate the entire thing.

After having it painted pink, LOBO added eighteen bars, four saunas, six brothels, a casino, two crack houses, and a Banana Republic; all of which guaranteed Predator Press 5% of the net profit.

The thing sunk in the harbor.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Sergeant Bellows looked over LOBO's application with a raised eyebrow. "In the box marked 'sex', you wrote 'often'."

LOBO and Legless Jim snickered.

"Oh wow that's funny," says the swiveling cigar. From somewhere in the smoke, he says "I've never seen that one before."

"Well, it's 'don't ask, don’t tell', right?" says Legless Jim.

"That's for sexuality."

We could see LOBO's dream of being deployed on an all-female aircraft carrier disintegrate in his glassy eyes.

"But 'please indicate your sexuality' is on the application!" he protested.

"Yeah, I see that. And you wrote 'flaming gay' ..."

"So I could be deployed with the hot chicks!"

"Whatever."

Well okay, now I'm curious. "But I thought your couldn't ask--"

Bellows swings the cigar into his waiting fingertips. "We didn't ask. We told him to fill out this application." Cigar in the ashtray, he leans back. "Look, how are we ever going to prosecute people for 'asking' if we don't know that the truth is? At least this way, if anybody calls Mr. Curr 'flaming gay', we can immediately shoot them because we know they asked."

"Hm," Says LOBO, now intrigued. "But what if someone calls me a 'raving heterosexual' or something?"

"Don't worry," I says. "There's no danger of that. In the entire span of this Blog, the only chick that even remotely wanted to pounce you got run over with a spaceship."

"But I'm not gay," says LOBO.

We all stare.

"I'm not!!!"

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.