My Unrequited Love is a STUD

Predator Press

[Mr I]

“It’s not impossible,” says RDO. “She’s a prototype. The tiny 'fertile' switch on her back has been fused for weeks, triggering full-blown ovulation. My God man, she could have had hundreds by now simply by osmosis." He pauses thoughtfully. "There must have been some sort of power surge recently that voided her warranty --as well as numerous other implied Extended Service Plans.”

“Get me LOBO on the phone,” says Ethan.


***

“Hey buddy!” says Ethan into the speakerphone. “How is the vacation going?”

“Well to be honest sir, I thought the Bahamas would be a lot warmer,” says the static.

[inaudible]

“What is that rattling sound?” asks Ethan, tapping the speakerphone.

“That would be my spine, sir. Warsaw sucks despite all that bullshit tropical hype.” The voice trails off for a second. “Sir, could you please arrange for me to return quickly? I’m fucking freezing--”

“Sure,” says Ethan, thrilled that everything is so simple. “We need you back for a paternity test anyways.”

“I never met the chick sir,” says the static. “Oh my God I am so cold …”

“It’s Sapphire.”

[pause]

“Sir, this test is coming at a very bad time,” says the disembodied speakerphone. “This place is fantastic, and I’m exploring some amazing career opportunities. Just give me another month or two. Your breaking up quite a bit now. What!?! Sasquach? Oh my GO---!!"

[dial tone]

Bombshell

Predator Press

[COBE]

Sapphire slipped into the office quietly. “Cobe, is LOBO gone on his vacation?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “And I feel like we are all on vacation for the next ten weeks.”

Suddenly, he realizes Sapphire is crying.

“Oh my God Sapphire,” he says, leaping to his feet. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Cobe, can I tell you something you can never tell another human being?”

“Of course, my dear. Anything.”

Here comes the wind up ...

“I’m pregnant!” she wails.

... and we are outta here.

Bilge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I got up early. Showered, shaved, pony tailed, suited, the works.

I would go as far as to say I looked rather dapper.

But 16 miles at 105 MPH in 17 degrees with my car door bungee-corded shut changed the game a little … My hair, still wet when I left, has flash-frozen closely to my head.

Goddamnnit, it’s perfect. I mean seriously: my hair is magnificent. Maybe I don't need a new car after all ...

And as predicted, Ethan really doesn’t seem to care about me getting some time off, as long as I get it cleared with the Director of Operations.

The Director of Operations, of course, is Cobe.

Houston, we may have a problem.


***

“We have concerns about how the corporate image Predator Press has evolved this year,” he says.

“Our image is fine,” I insist impatiently.

“Really?” says Cobe, thumping a big file on his desk. “Assault on a noted environmentalist, the attempted homicide of Santa Claus—“

“Okay fine. We’ve hit some speed bumps,” LOBO admits. "Look, I'll give you a quarter--"

Cobe’s eyes narrow. “You also tried to have me killed,” he says thinly.

“It was for a good cause,” I offer.

“Well, I think you should have to postpone your vacation until you have done something to repair the tarnish public image we are enduring.”

“What about all my charity work?”

“Ah, yes. Breast and Ovarian Cancer,” Cobe replies. “I would like to see something a little more tangible. Something more visible on a local level.”

“Like what?”




***

So I’m sitting outside the Kmart, freezing to death.

Dressed as Santa Claus.

I bang my bell on the red pot, yelling at bewildered customers through my fake beard. “You unpatriotic, cheapskate deadbeats! The French could kick the crap out of this so-called 'Army' … !”

Exit Wounds

Predator Press

[Mr I]

The best thing about dating Sapphire was it was a fun secret around the office.

But here it is, the biggest, craziest psychotic week of the year --courtesy of LOBO-- and poof, she's gone.

I was really starting to like her too.

But face it guys; once the hooks are in, you're done. Everything you do is for 'the couple', everything she does is for her.

It starts really sneaky. First she’s working on your little things, nuisance behaviors. Then appearance and health. Then ultimately, your boozing and whoring. Then she's ditching you for big stuff with evasive excuses, careful about which calls she answers around you, keeping crazy nocturnal hours and friends, all the while balancing an appearance of a commitment as long as the commitment doesn't require too much risk or effort ...

Nothing too inconvenient. It's not like we have anything actually at stake here.

I've been working 24-7 on a "relationship" with someone who has no idea who I am, has no time, and wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire. And I’m so dumb, I sat there for a while wondering “What happened?”

For a few days, anyways.

Free Lunch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In a last ditch effort to mooch the free vacation I deserve rather than actually paying for anything, I broke into Bertram.

Again.

Doctor Keller was utterly confounded. "How do you keep getting in here?" he says, exasperated.

"Getting in is the easy part Doc," I brag. "The real trick is getting into the straight jacket."

"And how do you do that?"

"I have very nimble toes."

South for the Winter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I've talked myself into it.

As hard as it will be to afford, screw it. I need this.

I hate this place and everyone here, and desperately need to go and hate being someplace else for a while ... someplace with some of that oh-so-detestable sand maybe.

And screw airport security! I'm not packing nothing 'cept sunscreen, my roller blades, and a thong.

See you in ten days!

Bio Graphic

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I woke up this morning to take my, eh, “morning constitutional”, a quarter that was stuck to my butt fell in the toilet.

Now I have to drive to Kmart every time I need to use the bathroom, and the Yellow Pages don’t have any listings under ‘Toilet Quarter Removal’.

Plus it’s Sunday.

The local authorities have been absolutely no help whatsoever.

... I've got a feeling this is going to cost me big ...

Stiletto

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 …

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.)

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.

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.