Don't Blink

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Phoebe sets the big bowl of chicken soup on the counter, and Phil lands gracefully right next to it.

“That’s very sweet of you,” I says, shooing away Phil.

“Ethan and I were just going to see Rocky VI, and your place was on the way.”

“Who is 'The Italian Stallion’ fighting this time? His HMO?”

Phoebe shoos away Phil. “LOBO, we need to talk.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“How are you going to explain this whole ‘Sapphire’ thing?"

“What do you mean?” I says, shooing away Phil.

“Well, how can she have a black baby? There aren’t that many black people on this blog.”

I'm puzzled.

“Is it Jimmy Orlando?” she demands.

“First of all, I go to great lengths not to describe people, so the readers can just superimpose themselves over the characters. What are you saying? That I’m not kicking around minorities enough? For anyone knows, you're black." I shoo away Phil, "Jimmy Orlando is Hawaiian, by the way. Thanks for reading."

“I guess I never figured you as a inter-racial kind of guy. Don’t you think this might be kind of sensitive material? It's very important that you handle this properly. The very next thing you write could have dramatic polarizing effects on how mixed races will coexist for generations.”

“As far as I’m concerned, everybody should keep fucking everybody else until we’re all the same color."

”Hey, it’s really hot in here,” says Phoebe. “Do you mind if I take off my clothes?”

“What?” I says, startled.

“I said ‘it’s really cold in here, and you should keep that window closed’.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Do you know it’s rude to blog while someone is talking to you?” she says. "And, hey, the cat is eating your soup!"

"What?"

Fight in the Dog

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay. I’m sick.

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, ‘an I’m staring into my blog with puffy eyes, dry as a bone. With a 175 degree fever, my skull feels like a hot bowling ball has been installed behind my eyes.

I would’ve been sent home sick had I bothered to go to work.

Still, I called Ethan, trying frantically to think of some crazy story so I could get the day off:

“What?” says Ethan.

“I'b sick”.

“Dude. It’s noon.”

[pause]

“It's Daylight Sabings already?” I says.

“No. But you can work from home on this one. I want you to get started on that 'Plan 9' script."

“But I’ve nebber even seen that—“

[dial tone]


***

number of pages: 01 of 01

12:16 pm
To: Ethan

Re: “Plan 9” script

Wesley Snipes, currently embroiled in some kind of local contract dispute, can’t help me on this one. So we'll have to go light on the stunts.

Our movie opens with me floating around in a really cool looking hangar bay, making out with a space chick. Like a space Jennifer Anniston.

And then I go fight some aliens.

The Aliens capture me, and then I make out with a bunch of space chicks in a substance that looks and tastes like lime Jello. This is because the only way the Aliens can survive is by banging us in lime Jello --thereby extracting our virus-immune potassium-charged DNA via squirty vertebrate sex and an apocalyptic number of helpless Styrofoam banana slices-- and then lopping off our heads.

Then I fight some more space aliens. But this time I unveil a sinister plot that the ‘lopping off the heads’ part is really optional.

The End

I interpret 'Plan 9' as a love story. Your thoughts?

LOBO

The Early Worm

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally I’ve adjusted to getting up at 5 in the morning.

... So where the hell is everybody?

Got Wood

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, I don't think any of us expected Sapphire's baby to be black.

But I can't dwell on these things right now. Predator Press is now in negotiations with George Lucas; we're remaking Plan 9 From Outer Space with the epic operational budget of $8,570,868,975.16.

Out of this, Ethan demands free Gatorade for life.

What the heck is 'Gatorade'?

Discuss

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look, what to you want?" says Mr I.

With my index finger I absently stroke the edge of his vast, meticulously neat desk. "You know how people at work make small talk over, say, football games or maybe how handicapped people are assholes?"

"What are you getting at?"

"What if all that 'small talk'," I says, making quote marks in the air with my fingers, "was about me raising your unborn bastard child with Sapphire?"

Mr I leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Well, I would certainly have to kill everyone involved in that conversation," he says. “With hollowpoints. At point-blank range.”

"Well, we're out of trash bags in the break room," I says.

“Damn it!” his eyebrows narrow. "Can't that Cobe handle anything?"

Pressing 20k

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"My God Sapphire," I says in amazement. "I've been gone for a week and you have completely let yourself go. You're a fat slob now! And I mean fat like in the Leviathan sense of the word."

Her mascara ran in flowing tears. "What do you want, asshole?"

"I want to love and cherish you forever. To make you happy for the rest of our lives, and to raise the baby in love."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, will you break it to the baby's father? I'm hungy."

Got Game

Predator Press

[LOBO]

God is a funny guy.

He’ll go and tell you to do Stuff, and then go out of His way not to help you much.

I rode that glowing burro clear to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean: My thong is killing me.

It's absolutely true that burros tend to be a little on the 'gamey' side, but glowing burrows are delicious. And fortunately in Warsaw I was considered somewhat of a basketball phenomenon; soon I had enough money together from pick-up games for some A-1 and the forty hour flight home.

Great. Now my rollerblades thaw out.

Just wait until they turn off that "Please Fasten Seat Belt" light ...

Engine Light

Predator Press


”LOBO,” says God.

“What?” says me.

"You are going to go home and set things right with Charlize Theron -I mean, Sapphire- Jesus Christ, how does anybody keep all this straight? Have you any idea how much your blog sucks?”

“Vaguely,” says me.

"And after all that, I want you to really stick it to Cobe. I really hate that guy."

“Okie Dokie,” I says.

Don't Cry For Me Charlize Theron

Predator Press

[Mr I]

“Yes,” says Ethan into the speakerphone. “We’re all bogged down with Operation: Silverfish."

“Ugh,” says LOBO. “Sir, who is naming your Operations now?

“Cobe.”

”Well, we all knew it would be hard to top ‘Operation: Never Too Drunk To Fuck’, sir."

“Yes, but he keeps doing stuff.” Ethan complains. “The other day, I told him to get my Quarterly Reports prepared for inspection. You know what the little prick did?”

”He brought you the Quarterly Reports?”

“Yes. I'll be inspecting these things for hours!”

“The bastard. I’m sorry sir. I tried to warn you.”

“I know, I know. Say, is it cold there too?”

“Let’s put it this way. In this country, the leading cause of death is people tripping and impaling themselves on the lawn.”

“Sounds terrible, lobo.”

”Um, that’s LOBO sir.”

“What?”

"You’re mispronouncing my name again."

“Sorry,” Ethan replies. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back?”

"Are you kidding sir? It's the Great American Dream to live in the Bahamas."

"I suppose."

”Is Sapphire still preggers?”

“Oh yeah. I make Cobe get her pickles and Oreos at 3:30 every morning."

"But Sapphire hates pickles.”

"Yes she does," says Ethan. "But she hates Cobe more."

"When is she due?"

"She should be squeezing the lil bastard out any day now! We're all really excited ...”

Moving Day

Predator Press

[Ethan]

"For God's sake Cobe, move move move!"

EVERYTHING has got to go. I said six hours, and I meant six hours.

Not six hours and twenty-three and a half minutes.

"And be careful with Venus de Milo this time. If you break her arms off again, I'll have you stuffed--!"

Why is good help so hard to find these days?

I need a lozenge.

How am I supposed to impress the locals with no parade, no fanfare, no spectacle whatsoever? Not even a single lousy gigantic bear? Nothing! And after I had to walk to the plane expending my own personal energy, the least these gibberish-speaking deadbeat slackers could have done was carry me.

Just look! I think I'm getting a blister.

The only good thing about this is this new exchange rate: I was able to buy the Tzar Nicholas' desk for thirty-four cents; I could have talked them down I'm sure, but I was feeling generous.

"You can break a hundred dollar bill, right Stroganov?"

Chop chop there Ivan; maybe 'The Pen is Mightier than the Sword', but it takes a long, long time to get your head lopped off with a pen ...

Love is a Funny Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

t was cold. And Troy had grown so much over the past year, his gigantic feet stuck out over the edge of the bed.

Virtually everyone commented on his size. And naturally large already, the hard farming toil made his body answer as steel.

In deference to his heartbroken mother, rarely was how much he looked like his father spoken aloud. Indeed, 'Vetter the Silent' would have been long forgotten were Troy not first born the very same year the Beast was slain. To the contrary, he was hailed by the small community as a sign of a fearless new beginning.

And at seventeen, he was already starting to doubt those stories.

Tired from working the dying fields, he should by all rights be sleeping soundly. But his mind dwelled relentlessly over the previous day; the day his beloved Ella, the graceful, lovely girl whom he had deflowered only weeks before, was denied him forever.

He could no longer stare at the ceiling through tears; the cold, mourning weight of his aching heart collapsed deeper into the void every second, and rest was not soon imminent. Rubbing his eyes he sat up. Surely Ella’s mother was mistaken! Was he not rich enough? Honest enough? Good-looking enough? Indeed, Troy passed over desirable –and desiring-- brides every day. Why should he be so denied? The image of that hard, disagreeable woman, aged to unguessable years by the unkind elements and labor, telling him ‘no’ seared wounds into his mind again and again.

Earlier, Kess tried to help with advice. Winter drawing near, the chores easing ever so slowly, they found themselves occasionally frittering twilight hours away fishing, climbing trees, playing games; the idle pleasures of youth. “You are, after all, a bastard,” he offers. “Perhaps Ella’s mother is simply unimpressed with your prospects.” Smacking Troy hard, a wrestling taunt, he smiles, “I would suggest you do something heroic, were you not such a big pussy.”

Pondering this, Troy got up in the early night and donned his twice-altered pants and his thrice-altered shirt. After his boots, he folded his seemingly tiny blanket out of habit, lost in deep thought. There was nothing to heroic to do, it seemed, in this bland farming community.

We barely survive; was this not heroic enough?



***

The “Beast’s” former lair is still well-known. Looted completely, it was sealed with stones sixteen years hence.

And it was most certainly an evil place even still.

Nonetheless, one by one, Troy mindlessly tossed the stones away. Perhaps a demonstration of courage was in order; were he to retrieve a souvenir from this shunned, ominous place, perhaps it would impress Ella’s mother. Tip the scales. Win her over. And then Ella and he would be wed with her blessing, raising her grandchildren.

He poked his torch into the small hole he had created and dropped it inside, watching carefully. There was nothing to see except more cave. No cobwebs, no life, nothing.

He wiggled in.

It was warmer than he expected. And moist. And the smells were that of fetid, unseen vermin. Were he not so sure the cave was utterly sealed, he would have suspected that maybe the mountain cats were denned here. Maybe bears.

He knew that anything easy to find in this forsaken place would have been stolen long ago. So despite his size, he worked himself into difficult corridors that seemed to loop and climb and drop, sometimes only to pointlessly loop back into a sizable chamber where he had been before. Still, with his innate and uncanny sense of direction, he was never lost, never moments from the tiny entrance in the random maze.

In a tight downward shaft, he began to find bones.

Small, uninteresting ones at first. But the deeper he crawled, the larger they became. An avid hunter, these were bones of animals he had never seen before; long, delicate birdlike ones. Even one of these strange specimens would have fulfilled his original goal most likely; groups would come for miles around for a campfire only to speculate fantastically what The Beast ate, weaving tales told over generations.

But questions arose in his mind. Why are there so many of this same strange animal? And what does this large bird look like? The fact that the size of the bones increased as he persisted downward in the dark made his heart race. How big were the really big ones? Would he find the bones of something of equal size of the beast? What would that be?

Noises.

Scratching. Something heavy against crumbling stone.

He stopped and listened.

Nothing.



***

The cavern spilled wide suddenly, into a space the torchlight couldn’t illuminate well. He dropped it in front of himself to gauge the depth. It fell for about ten feet, sparking wildly on the ground from the impact. Then with an abrupt stop, it came to rest awkwardly on a pale, jagged surface.

It was the surface of a sea of skeletons. Bones picked so clean they could have passed for snow in the poor light.

He gasped and gaped; this chamber was just so vast; it was like standing under a dark sky.

Dropping his torch here was a mistake obviously. He only had one left, and unless this adventure was over now, he would need one for the winding and cramped way to the cavern’s opened entrance.

But the treasure! Within ten feet of the torch was a bone of such incredible size, it must have been a horse, or at least a creature of equal size. Troy had never actually seen a 'horse' before; this could be proof.

Before long, torch retrieved, he was scrambling across the jagged, ivory surface. In the distance was a strange geometrically organized area that had drawn his curiosity, and he decided that that would be the end of his explorations. He scrabbled deeper into the chamber, boots sinking --sometimes to the knee-- into the grizzly terrain.

In a circle on the biggest bones of all lie scattered big, thick, randomly-shaped shards of some sort. He picked one up.

It was light, yet strangely flat and thick. Too flat to be a bone.

You might think it was an eggshell ...



***

Bedazzled by the new smell of young human flesh, the hunter glided down in virtually silent circles. Despite being crazed and ravenous by the exotic, delectable meal, it was wary and restrained, picking the moment by instinct.

It came down on the boy perfectly. A certain killstrike.

But Troy, senses alive, was no fool. At the last second he stepped aside as the mammoth predator slammed into the "ground". And in a fraction of a moment the clever boy’s sword was being pulled from the foolish beast’s neck.

He stood in awe of his kill. It was easily fifteen feet long--

Smaller, the next one seized upon the hesitation, clamping down on his torch arm at the elbow. Troy passed into shock as he and the grinning beast pulled at separate angles ... flesh, muscle, and ligaments stripped away from his naked bone, punctuated with a sickening lurch at the wrist.

The third, much smaller blur, lopped at his other arm. Missing badly, he snapped the boy's sword with a sickening, muffled clang.

And then there was another.

And another.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Alas, fair Ella, your mother was right--