Predator Press
[LOBO]
Alright, which one of you people did it?
We can sit here all day if we have to.
Think I’m kidding?
One of you has violated the sacred and healing, uh, sanctimonium of this blog by showing it to the South American Consulate in order to arrange for my extradition.
In other words, one of you is a rat. And until I see entire cities burning in a mammoth effort of apocalyptic proportion to find and eradicate this despicable invisible scourge, I’m holding you all responsible.
What if I was publishing sensitive military secrets that could unhinge known global policy and wipe out humanity forever? For shame, thoughtless reader! And now everybody in South America knows that I watch American Chopper; could you possibly have made an assassination attempt any easier? Now anytime I watch that lazy Mikey, I have to worry about subliminal images leaping into my wholesome and unprepared mind, lulling me into a hypnotical state suitable for receiving a bullet in my noggin!
God that Mikey is so lazy.
Nevertheless, don’t make me start doing background checks people, because I will!
Was it you?
Or you? Oh, I never trusted you. Your eyes are a little shifty.
I’m waiting.
We can do this all day if we have to …
Sunday
Saturday
A Little Dumber Boy
Predator Press
[Mr I]
Twas three weeks before Christmas in the vast ICU,
and there I sit pensive, watching Cobe turn blue.
Phil was strapped firmly to the gurney with care,
a big ‘X’ on her chest marked the scalpels’ crosshair.
LOBO is locked in the trunk of my car
streaming obscenities for being captured afar;
Thank God for Ethan and his cool tracking gear,
and that LOBO's so dumb, the "Christmas Card" thing works every year.
Then all through the place there arose such a clatter
I sprung up from bedside to see what’s the matter;
Those clickings and whirs were burned in our heads:
The cybernetic sounds of Brad Pitt’s stolen legs!
Santa sneaks in with his hand to his lips
telling us “Shh”. He smiles --with his hat gives a tip--
and out from his bag, he pulls out a light
that slips to Cobe’s chest, closing it tight.
Cobe sits up, rubs his eyes as do we;
He’s alive, well and grinning at Phil, Santa and me!
Well, we know it’s not Christmas, but we wish you well now
(--non-denominational Phil, of course, just says meow.)
[Mr I]
Twas three weeks before Christmas in the vast ICU,
and there I sit pensive, watching Cobe turn blue.
Phil was strapped firmly to the gurney with care,
a big ‘X’ on her chest marked the scalpels’ crosshair.
LOBO is locked in the trunk of my car
streaming obscenities for being captured afar;
Thank God for Ethan and his cool tracking gear,
and that LOBO's so dumb, the "Christmas Card" thing works every year.
Then all through the place there arose such a clatter
I sprung up from bedside to see what’s the matter;
Those clickings and whirs were burned in our heads:
The cybernetic sounds of Brad Pitt’s stolen legs!
Santa sneaks in with his hand to his lips
telling us “Shh”. He smiles --with his hat gives a tip--
and out from his bag, he pulls out a light
that slips to Cobe’s chest, closing it tight.
Cobe sits up, rubs his eyes as do we;
He’s alive, well and grinning at Phil, Santa and me!
Well, we know it’s not Christmas, but we wish you well now
(--non-denominational Phil, of course, just says meow.)
Friday
Killswitch
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.
Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.
The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.
It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.
She’s had a rough week.
Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...
I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.
Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?
Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.
***
The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.
Last year, there were more than 16,000.
I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.
So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.
So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.
I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?
Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?
I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.
That'll learn 'im.
Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.
[LOBO]
Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.
Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.
The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.
It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.
She’s had a rough week.
Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...
I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.
Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?
Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.
The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.
Last year, there were more than 16,000.
I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.
So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.
So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.
I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?
Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?
I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.
That'll learn 'im.
Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.
Thursday
In the Bones
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”
“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.
“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”
The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”
“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.
“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”
“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”
“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“Not one lousy heart?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.
The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”
LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”
“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”
We both look at LOBO.
“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”
I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”
“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“
LOBO screamed.
[Mr I]
“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”
“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.
“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”
The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”
“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.
“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”
“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”
“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“Not one lousy heart?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.
The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”
LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”
“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”
We both look at LOBO.
“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”
I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”
“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“
LOBO screamed.
November Rain
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“You’re not going to believe this,” I says to LOBO. “Cobe got this wild hair up his tail about doing a nude pictorial of Phoebe.”
“No!” says LOBO.
“Yeah. We got the whole thing on the security cams. Watch this.”
It’s grainy, and the fresh snow is rather blinding on the monitor. At 7:45 am (as reflected in the corner of the screen), Phoebe pulls into the parking facility just in time for work. Even in her heeled boots, the tall, leggy beauty is graceful in ankle-deep snow.
Greeting her at the entrance is Cobe.
I fast forward a little. “This is pretty dull for a few minutes here. ‘Hi, nice to see you this morning’ blah blah. But then at precisely 7:51, here it goes--”
Whatever happened really isn’t clear. There is a slight twitch, maybe a flinch of Phoebe’s hip, and she continues on into the building, tossing something dark and round over her shoulder that flops shapelessly into the snow. Even in the slowest-motion the security cam provided, whatever happened seems to happen between frames.
Cobe remains standing motionless, a strange look crossing over his face.
“Now watch this,” I say, pointing to Cobe's chest with my pen.
A small dark circle appears on his parka, and Cobe slumps forward slightly. The white snow in front of him is now splattered in dark, thick fluid.
At 7:52, Cobe’s lifeless body finally crumples to the ground.
“The police are on the way, and our insurance companies are besides themselves,” I say.
“Why?” asks LOBO. “He asked Phoebe to do a nude pictorial. I would say that this is classified as an attempted suicide. And on the off-chance he survives, we can simply have him fired for attempted murder of himself.”
“Attempted nothing,” I say. “According to our records, Cobe opted for an HMO.”
“Well, why are we wasting time with an ambulance then? I say we 'can' him right now for destruction of company assets, and have the maintenance guys throw him in the dumpster.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Phoebe has just been trough a very traumatic experience and I’m going to console her. You know, you really should try and be a little more sensitive to people at times like this.”
[Mr I]
“You’re not going to believe this,” I says to LOBO. “Cobe got this wild hair up his tail about doing a nude pictorial of Phoebe.”
“No!” says LOBO.
“Yeah. We got the whole thing on the security cams. Watch this.”
It’s grainy, and the fresh snow is rather blinding on the monitor. At 7:45 am (as reflected in the corner of the screen), Phoebe pulls into the parking facility just in time for work. Even in her heeled boots, the tall, leggy beauty is graceful in ankle-deep snow.
Greeting her at the entrance is Cobe.
I fast forward a little. “This is pretty dull for a few minutes here. ‘Hi, nice to see you this morning’ blah blah. But then at precisely 7:51, here it goes--”
Whatever happened really isn’t clear. There is a slight twitch, maybe a flinch of Phoebe’s hip, and she continues on into the building, tossing something dark and round over her shoulder that flops shapelessly into the snow. Even in the slowest-motion the security cam provided, whatever happened seems to happen between frames.
Cobe remains standing motionless, a strange look crossing over his face.
“Now watch this,” I say, pointing to Cobe's chest with my pen.
A small dark circle appears on his parka, and Cobe slumps forward slightly. The white snow in front of him is now splattered in dark, thick fluid.
At 7:52, Cobe’s lifeless body finally crumples to the ground.
“The police are on the way, and our insurance companies are besides themselves,” I say.
“Why?” asks LOBO. “He asked Phoebe to do a nude pictorial. I would say that this is classified as an attempted suicide. And on the off-chance he survives, we can simply have him fired for attempted murder of himself.”
“Attempted nothing,” I say. “According to our records, Cobe opted for an HMO.”
“Well, why are we wasting time with an ambulance then? I say we 'can' him right now for destruction of company assets, and have the maintenance guys throw him in the dumpster.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Phoebe has just been trough a very traumatic experience and I’m going to console her. You know, you really should try and be a little more sensitive to people at times like this.”
Wednesday
Angry Management
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Cobe,” I says. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you sir,” says the hideous little man. “I’m up for review this week. I work so much, I haven’t slept or bathed since April.”
“How very efficient,” I reply ponderously. “Do you think you’ll get that Chief Negotiator position?”
“Excuse me sir?”
“You didn’t know? I thought everybody knew.” Here comes the lying part. “Ethan has been considering you for that position for a long time now.”
I am the Rembrandt of lying.
With enough time, I could convince you George Bush was secretly a celebrated part-time accountant for MENSA.
"Really?"
“Yeah,” I says excitely. “Cobe, you’re absolutely gruesome.”
Oops.
“Thank you sir.”
“--I mean a shoe-in”, I stammer. “Oh, fuck it. There. I said it. Cobe, you’re one revolting-looking human being. I mean like H. P. Lovecraft ugly."
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” Cobe replies. “But you were saying about the job … ?”
“Oh yeah. That. I would say your chances are about 50-50 at this point.” I pause for drama, stretching coolly. Exhaling, “... Too bad you couldn’t, I don’t know, impress Ethan with something really big between now and that review.”
“I work 106 hours a week with no breaks.”
“Negotiating?”
“No.”
I shake my head. “See, that’s what I mean. And the timing’s bad too. There’s really only one big outstanding Predator Press negotiation pending right now.” Thinking quickly I add, “--being that it’s the slow season for negotiations and all.”
“What negotiation is that?” asks Cobe with keen, predictable, and butt-ugly interest.
“We want Phobe to pose nude on PredatorPress.com.”
“But wouldn’t Sapphire be a—?“
“Saphire’s a stripper, you fuckin freakshow-destined yet otherwise model employee. Everybody’s already seen Sapphire’s action. Don’t you remember that post when she made us put up naked pictures of her?” I tap my forehead, trying to remember, “It’s in the archives," I flounder. "It’s that one post with all the cursing. According to the counter, nobody fucking went.”
“According to the counter, nobody goes to any of PredatorPress.com--”
“Being a ‘Mr. Smarty Guy’ and tripping me up with the facts isn’t going to help your situation, you revolting, multi-celled organism.”
“I’m sorry sir.”
“Noted,” I says, continuing ...
[LOBO]
“Cobe,” I says. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you sir,” says the hideous little man. “I’m up for review this week. I work so much, I haven’t slept or bathed since April.”
“How very efficient,” I reply ponderously. “Do you think you’ll get that Chief Negotiator position?”
“Excuse me sir?”
“You didn’t know? I thought everybody knew.” Here comes the lying part. “Ethan has been considering you for that position for a long time now.”
I am the Rembrandt of lying.
With enough time, I could convince you George Bush was secretly a celebrated part-time accountant for MENSA.
"Really?"
“Yeah,” I says excitely. “Cobe, you’re absolutely gruesome.”
Oops.
“Thank you sir.”
“--I mean a shoe-in”, I stammer. “Oh, fuck it. There. I said it. Cobe, you’re one revolting-looking human being. I mean like H. P. Lovecraft ugly."
“I appreciate your candor, sir,” Cobe replies. “But you were saying about the job … ?”
“Oh yeah. That. I would say your chances are about 50-50 at this point.” I pause for drama, stretching coolly. Exhaling, “... Too bad you couldn’t, I don’t know, impress Ethan with something really big between now and that review.”
“I work 106 hours a week with no breaks.”
“Negotiating?”
“No.”
I shake my head. “See, that’s what I mean. And the timing’s bad too. There’s really only one big outstanding Predator Press negotiation pending right now.” Thinking quickly I add, “--being that it’s the slow season for negotiations and all.”
“What negotiation is that?” asks Cobe with keen, predictable, and butt-ugly interest.
“We want Phobe to pose nude on PredatorPress.com.”
“But wouldn’t Sapphire be a—?“
“Saphire’s a stripper, you fuckin freakshow-destined yet otherwise model employee. Everybody’s already seen Sapphire’s action. Don’t you remember that post when she made us put up naked pictures of her?” I tap my forehead, trying to remember, “It’s in the archives," I flounder. "It’s that one post with all the cursing. According to the counter, nobody fucking went.”
“According to the counter, nobody goes to any of PredatorPress.com--”
“Being a ‘Mr. Smarty Guy’ and tripping me up with the facts isn’t going to help your situation, you revolting, multi-celled organism.”
“I’m sorry sir.”
“Noted,” I says, continuing ...
Saturday
Predator Press Interviews: Kevin Federline
Predator Press
I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …
LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?
Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.
LOBO: Any kids?
Kevin Federline: Yes.
LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.
Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?
LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.
Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.
LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.
Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.
LOBO: Is she dating yet?
Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.
LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.
Kevin Federline: I can imagine.
LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?
Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.
LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?
Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--
LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--
Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.
LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--
Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?
LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?
I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …
LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?
Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.
LOBO: Any kids?
Kevin Federline: Yes.
LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.
Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?
LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.
Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.
LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.
Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.
LOBO: Is she dating yet?
Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.
LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.
Kevin Federline: I can imagine.
LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?
Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.
LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?
Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--
LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--
Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.
LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--
Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?
LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?
Lighten Up
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
Wednesday
GRACELAND
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
YESTERDAY
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
***
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
***
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
Thou Shalt Not Bitch
Predator Press
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
Monday
Borne Again
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
***
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
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