Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Too depressed to even defile any graves, LOBO wailed over Legless Jim's coffin. "Why?" he sobbed at the empty sky. "Why Jim? He was such a good guy. Young, vibrant ... so full of life and love! He had so much to contribute."

I put my hand on his shoulder, and for a second, his tearful eye met mine. Then he turned and shook his fist upward, "Couldn't you take Mr Insanity instead? I mean he's actually on the payroll ...!"


***

The Chick Magnet wouldn't start, so Sapphire drove LOBO, Legless Jim and I home. Legless Jim rode shotgun; he was developing a thing for the girl.

"It'll never work," LOBO whispers to me. "She might be a malfunctioning psychotic robot, but even with Brad Pitt's legs I don't think necrophilia is among her vast repertoire of neurosi and insecurities."

"'Vast repertoire--'?!" says Sapphire, slamming on the brakes.

"Hey," LOBO continues. "It's not my fault you're a psychological wasteland of irrational thought processes--"

Sapphire glared at him through the mirror for a moment in complete disbelief. Then, the overhead light came on as she opened the door.

"What he's trying to say," Legless Jim added, thinking quickly, "is that you are a very attractive woman that's just having an unlucky run right now."

She paused.

"Yeah," says LOBO. "You're a totally hot babe. There's absolutely no reason you shouldn't be beating guys off with both hands."

"We're going to be late for the séance if we don't get moving," I says, nervously close to the man who would soon be turned into a smoldering crater.

"Séance?" says LOBO, alarmed.

Sapphire shut the door, and activates the door locks, smiling coyly.

"Yeah," I says. "We're going to try to contact Legless Jim from the other side."

LOBO shrunk in his seat. "We're going to contact the dead?"

"Yes," says Sapphire, grinning. "Haven't done anything to piss off the dead lately, have you?"

LOBO couldn't hear.

He was loudly trying to chew his way through the car door.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Receiving the news of Legless Jim's untimely death came as quite a shock.

Especially to Legless Jim.

"But I'm not dead," he would insist.

I took it really hard.

I couldn't even gloat.

Walking out to the Chick Magnet, my badass ride, I just sort of collapsed against the primered 1990 Plymouth Horizon. And for a long, quiet moment of serious mortal self-reflection, I writhed in the excruciating pain of tragic loss.

"But I'm not dead, dumbass!" says poor old Lifeless, Legless Jim.

His obituary was featured in the Las Vegas Times --along with the 1999 other brave heroes lost in the Russian invasion-- on page 53 of the People section.

My "WWID" license plate obscured in comet-like dust behind my car, Legless Joe incessantly badgered me the whole way to the funeral, completely wrecking my somber, agonized grief.

It's a good thing this disrespectful fuck is already dead, I thought.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

LOBO was so dejected from his court martial, Legless Jim and I were at a complete loss as to what to do with him.

Ultimately, we hadda take him by a cemetery to cheer him up.

"Pisspoor prototypes!" he cried happily when we arrived.

"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr 'Nuclear Engineer 1964-2003'?" he would demand, kicking over the tombstone. Then he would move to the next one. "Hm, Louis Pasteur ... I'll bet curing typhoid fever won't save you from this, you now-worthless dead fuck!"

It's good to see him happy again.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

LOBO faced his court martial with rather uncharacteristic dignity.

"So let me get this straight," says General Hamms. "In order to defend the US from a Russian invasion, you wrecked a 35 trillion dollar war vessel."

"No," says LOBO adamantly. "The superintelligent giant squid did."

"It says here you let him drive."

"I didn't have a crew. Legless Jim ran out of Martini olives, and everybody was ready to mutiny."

Gasps rippled throughout the courtroom.

General Hamms points at the court reporter. "Let the records show that the defendant --former Brigadier General LOBO-- has admitted under oath that he left the US Warship Johnson negligently out of Martini olives under his command!"

"Order! Order!" demands the Judge, banging his gavel in a feeble effort to reclaim decorum under the booing and hissing. "Mr. Curr, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," he says. "I fucking hate olives almost as much as I hate those little supremacist Cheerios. Both of them exploited the Spaghettio, and made 'em run casinos." He paused dramatically. "Can't we all just be a grey quazi tomatoe-pasta pizza topping that stays crunchy in milk?"

And so General Hamms ceremoniously tore the bars, stripes and stars away from LOBO's notoriously-itchy uniform.

Parting Schatt

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

"Remember this?" I demanded, kicking the old man in the stomach. I stuffed the rumpled paper into the old business teacher's face.

"Yes," cried the muffled voice. "It's a ridiculous business model presented by an idiot former student of mine. LOBO, I think!"

"Yeah, well he's a bigshot war hero now. So we had this checked out by Steven Hawking. It turns out you gave him a 'C' because you forgot to carry the one when you checked his math!" I kicked him again.

"Steven Hawking is a hack--!" wailed the sobbing, frail instructor. "A reckless mathematical maverick!"

"Professor Schatt," I continued, "for failing to credit LOBO with the delivery of eighty thousand widgets per year since 1997, the compiled interest, and the pain and suffering inflicted upon my client --your former student-- we hereby hold you liable for 352 trillion--"

"353 trillion," says Legless Jim, winking.

"--353 trillion dollars," I says, stompin on his lymph nodes.

"Let's go to the ATM," the broken professor whimpered.

Helter Skelter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look," I says, scratching 'cuz of this itchy fucking uniform. "We have a lot in common. You're a cold-blooded superintelligent, giant, evil squid and I'm a ..."

Uh-oh.

"... really ... "

Think fast.

" ... notorious ..."

C'mon douchebag.

"Douchebag!" I says, relieved.

The superintelligent giant squid eyed me warily.

"I'm serious!" I says. "When's the last time that Santa asshole showed up for you, hm?"

The squid's giant eye, hanging on an articulated eyestalk, was tearing up. (And for all you people that read books and crap, yes I know squids don't have articulated eyestalks. This is my story. So go read Quincy or something, smartass!)

"Well, this year would be the 25th Anniversary of 'Silent Night, Holy Crap'," I says in yet another desperate effort to get you confused new readers to go back to the March 2006 Archives link --almost directly to the right of this post-- when these fuctup plotlines got started. "And I've got a little payback planned out for The Fat Man."

The superintelligent giant squid squealed with glee.

"You want in?" I asked.

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."