Predator Press
[LOBO]
It’s a good bet that Santa will once again be skipping over my humble abode, despite my absolutely angelic behavior. So this year, I’ve decided to pounce the fuck from Cobe’s place.
Cobe will be at work anyways.
‘Ol Saint Nick' will never see this coming. Cobe’s place is already an incredible array of flashing electric Christmas crap, making it a buzzing sensory overload; it’s the perfect place for an ambush.
The roof is peppered with a deadly array of mines, spotlights, surface-to-air missiles, grenade launchers, motion detectors, you name it. And as a personal touch, I even put a remote laser in the nose of one of Cobe’s stuffed reindeer ... you know, the one with the nose already conveniently deformed?
Cobe’s place is a fortress bristling with more firepower than Faluja and Los Angeles combined.
And should the fat man somehow survive the roof, the inside is twice as lethal: The chimney is lined with poisoned spikes, the stockings are trapped, the cookies and milk are a specialized, exotic set of chemicals that will detonate when combined. And a small assortment of Hawley Enterprises' armored cars –cleverly disguised as “Meals on Wheels” vans-- are parked around back, to aid in carrying off all that Christmas loot.
You know, I had almost forgot what a joyous occasion the Holidays can be.
Sunday
Friday
A Slicing Device
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
***
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
***
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
***
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
[LOBO]
Well, one good thing about this little publication is it’s conspicuous avoidance of anything seriously 'Christmassy' altogether. To say “it’s been hard to get in The Spirit this year” is perhaps the most monumental understatement I’ve ever heard.
It won’t end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I’ll once again be standing behind big crowded lines of you people returning the stuff you've already inconvenienced me buying. And you're twice as cranky this time because your futile and unrealistic New Years Resolution to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam --has made you all complete homicidal maniacs.
Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Isn't it enough to just say “Merry Christmas”?
[*sigh*]
So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.
“LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!”
“Who?”
“The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture …”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Because I’m a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?”
Hah! He said ‘dickens’.
“It’s 3am you jerk,” I says.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I’m way behind schedule.”
“What happened to those other two dead guys, ‘Christmas Past’ and ‘Christmas Plus’ or whatever?”
“They got downsized in July.”
“Well, they were probably pretty lazy then.”
“I’m here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways.”
“Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--”
“Let’s go,” he persists. “I’m on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re at your place a year from now.”
“My god it’s huge!”
The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. “This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley.“
“Wow!” I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. “That’s really cool.”
Over the massive, solid oak doors, ‘CASA DE LOBO’ is inscribed.
The ghost scratches his head, “Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in.”
“What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!”
“We’re invisible. Nobody can see us.”
“Cool,” I concede glumly.
Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.
And rabies.
“Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We’re not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks.”
“But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know, for a guy who is already dead, you’re pretty inhibited.”
“Maybe.”
It’s a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.
Which means they can’t move.
I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver’s side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.
We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck’s rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It’s a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.
And that’s when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.
It’s Cobe.
“Is he--?” I ask the specter.
“Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again.”
“A hot tub, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get it delivered?”
“Yes. And he installed it.”
I shake my head, “Well, I’ve got to tell you. I’m not seeing a downside here.”
“You’re an asshole,” says the ghost.
“I’m an asshole?” I says. “You’re the one wrecking up my sleep with all this ‘goodwill’ and 'peace on Earth' crap.”
“You didn’t buy a single Christmas present this year.”
“So?”
“So where’s your Christmas Spirit? What’s with you?” He hesitates for a second. “Is it Sapphire?”
I don’t say anything.
“But LOBO,” he says. “Sapphire is happy now.”
“I know!” I says. “Can you believe that bitch?”
“Why didn’t you go to her when you had the chance?”
“Because I figured Edward wasn’t likely to smash into her with spaceships and drop IHOPs on her! Don’t go lording your store-bought presents and crap over me," I brush back a tear. "What I did was hard.”
The ghost, stunned, sits quietly for a moment. “I know,” he says finally, putting his arm over my slumped shoulders.
“Hey watch it!” I recoil. “Don’t go getting zombie death juice all over my cool pajamas—“
Thursday
Right You Are, Ken ...
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Planning for the complete destruction of time, matter and space during the holiday season seems like it might be in poor taste. Can’t you tactless people do this “Christmas” thing some other time?
Oh, and Cobe --what kind of crap was that!? ‘Ox Nuts’ gets nominated for an Oscar in the ‘Best Choreography in a Musical’ category, and suddenly everyone on Predator Press is Sylvia Platt?
Well, I find it offensive. Cobe, you sicken me with your squishy “emotions” or whatever; if Ethan wasn’t concerned about his PR during this DVD release, I’ll bet he would have you filleted! You just blew your chance to be Ground Control for the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
... Which is coming along splendidly, I might add.
The cup holders came in today.
[LOBO]
Planning for the complete destruction of time, matter and space during the holiday season seems like it might be in poor taste. Can’t you tactless people do this “Christmas” thing some other time?
Oh, and Cobe --what kind of crap was that!? ‘Ox Nuts’ gets nominated for an Oscar in the ‘Best Choreography in a Musical’ category, and suddenly everyone on Predator Press is Sylvia Platt?
Well, I find it offensive. Cobe, you sicken me with your squishy “emotions” or whatever; if Ethan wasn’t concerned about his PR during this DVD release, I’ll bet he would have you filleted! You just blew your chance to be Ground Control for the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
... Which is coming along splendidly, I might add.
The cup holders came in today.
Fuel
Predator Press
[COBE]
The riders chose to separate;
one for love, the other hate.
Wrested from the tranquil morn,
the two will part in mortal scorn.
The lover lived to be adored,
the latter galloped off to war
--to cut down mountains, boil the seas
and purge the earth of memory.
[COBE]
The riders chose to separate;
one for love, the other hate.
Wrested from the tranquil morn,
the two will part in mortal scorn.
The lover lived to be adored,
the latter galloped off to war
--to cut down mountains, boil the seas
and purge the earth of memory.
Wednesday
Here To Stay
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This has been one hell of a tumultuous revolution around the sun.
And yet, in some ways, it gave us a lot of room to adapt and flourish. What choice do we have but to embrace change?
Nothing is permanent except change itself.
This is not new. This is not “special”. There is nothing unique or noble about this at all; strife and flux are the 'Natural Order'. In ten billion years, who will be there lamenting the great and epic 'tragedy' that was endured in our self-indulgent, painfully unremarkable individual lives?
We will.
We have commissioned the construction of the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
It is a scientific vessel --housing numerous really smart bikini models-- that will orbit the black hole occupying the space where our galaxy was.
And as massive supernovae wipe out every trace of matter in the universe and collapse into a dense singularity only to erupt once again into the splendor of time and space, that gigantic Helvetica Predator Press logo will endeavor boldly onward, armed only with round-the-clock tanning beds and Pena Coladas.
We will all miss you, of course ...
[LOBO]
This has been one hell of a tumultuous revolution around the sun.
And yet, in some ways, it gave us a lot of room to adapt and flourish. What choice do we have but to embrace change?
Nothing is permanent except change itself.
This is not new. This is not “special”. There is nothing unique or noble about this at all; strife and flux are the 'Natural Order'. In ten billion years, who will be there lamenting the great and epic 'tragedy' that was endured in our self-indulgent, painfully unremarkable individual lives?
We will.
We have commissioned the construction of the Predator Press Rescue Space Station.
It is a scientific vessel --housing numerous really smart bikini models-- that will orbit the black hole occupying the space where our galaxy was.
And as massive supernovae wipe out every trace of matter in the universe and collapse into a dense singularity only to erupt once again into the splendor of time and space, that gigantic Helvetica Predator Press logo will endeavor boldly onward, armed only with round-the-clock tanning beds and Pena Coladas.
We will all miss you, of course ...
Tuesday
The Day the Chick Manget Died
Predator Press
[LOBO]
She was a great car. And that 1990 Plymouth Horizon with Corinthian leather interior and a Porsche 911 engine probably had better owners.
But she leaked oil.
It’s hard to be a great car leaking oil when Jessica Simpson leaps on your hood and Jennifer Lopez clings to your roof and you have twenty-six cinderblocks in your hatch.
Anna Kournikova was so stubborn, I hadda threaten her Predator Press subscription …
[LOBO]
She was a great car. And that 1990 Plymouth Horizon with Corinthian leather interior and a Porsche 911 engine probably had better owners.
But she leaked oil.
It’s hard to be a great car leaking oil when Jessica Simpson leaps on your hood and Jennifer Lopez clings to your roof and you have twenty-six cinderblocks in your hatch.
Anna Kournikova was so stubborn, I hadda threaten her Predator Press subscription …
Hard-Core Troubadour
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What really sucks is the inability to sleep. I’m fried on weeks of short spurts of light dozing, punctuated rudely by fits of coughing. I don’t even have the concentration to watch TV or play video games.
And under this thick glaze of disease --and almost certain pending death, I'm sure-- I guess I’m bored. Hell, the house is clean, the laundry is done ... thus I don’t really have the option of trying to divert my attention on any household tasks, were I to muster any strength. Honestly, the only thing the got me out of bed at all was the opportunity to spread lethal germs all over Mr. Insanity’s PC; everyone else is gone, currently embroiled in the pre-production of 'Ox Nuts: The Motion Picture'.
Casting begins today.
I wanted to play 'Ox' myself, but it turns out I'm slightly, eh, "underqualified".
Slightly.
[LOBO]
What really sucks is the inability to sleep. I’m fried on weeks of short spurts of light dozing, punctuated rudely by fits of coughing. I don’t even have the concentration to watch TV or play video games.
And under this thick glaze of disease --and almost certain pending death, I'm sure-- I guess I’m bored. Hell, the house is clean, the laundry is done ... thus I don’t really have the option of trying to divert my attention on any household tasks, were I to muster any strength. Honestly, the only thing the got me out of bed at all was the opportunity to spread lethal germs all over Mr. Insanity’s PC; everyone else is gone, currently embroiled in the pre-production of 'Ox Nuts: The Motion Picture'.
Casting begins today.
I wanted to play 'Ox' myself, but it turns out I'm slightly, eh, "underqualified".
Slightly.
They Can't All Be Gems
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Sorry gang ... home sick today.
Death is at my bedside, slicing onions and carrots into a big pot ... awful nice of the guy to go out of his way and cook and all ...
I can't do this "doctor" crap again ... I hate being sick only slightly more than I hate being well.
[*pout*]
Phoebe, will you please come over and say nice things again?
God is mad at me.
[LOBO]
Sorry gang ... home sick today.
Death is at my bedside, slicing onions and carrots into a big pot ... awful nice of the guy to go out of his way and cook and all ...
I can't do this "doctor" crap again ... I hate being sick only slightly more than I hate being well.
[*pout*]
Phoebe, will you please come over and say nice things again?
God is mad at me.
Fear of Flying
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m dreaming.
I’m standing in and endless snowy field.
Santa and his full compliment of reindeer slide to a deliberate, graceful halt beside me, and Santa dismounts his sleigh. He's smiling.
I never see the uppercut coming.
Or the jab. Or the next uppercut ...
Tossing me up on his big bag of toys, he commands the reindeer to take to the sky once more.
***
“Ho ho ho,” he cries. “Come now LOBO, let me show you the True Meaning of Christmas!”
Waking slowly I sit up, and a thin blood icicle snaps off my nose.
Ahead, I can see powerful beasts galloping mightily to pull us into the sky, their breath streaming behind them as they arc across the full moon. Peering down over Santa’s shoulder through my swelling eyes, I can see the tiny sparkling lights of Gary, Indiana beneath us. Overwhelmed by the sensation of flight, I stretch out my arms.
And that’s when I strangle that fat fuck …
[LOBO]
I’m dreaming.
I’m standing in and endless snowy field.
Santa and his full compliment of reindeer slide to a deliberate, graceful halt beside me, and Santa dismounts his sleigh. He's smiling.
I never see the uppercut coming.
Or the jab. Or the next uppercut ...
Tossing me up on his big bag of toys, he commands the reindeer to take to the sky once more.
“Ho ho ho,” he cries. “Come now LOBO, let me show you the True Meaning of Christmas!”
Waking slowly I sit up, and a thin blood icicle snaps off my nose.
Ahead, I can see powerful beasts galloping mightily to pull us into the sky, their breath streaming behind them as they arc across the full moon. Peering down over Santa’s shoulder through my swelling eyes, I can see the tiny sparkling lights of Gary, Indiana beneath us. Overwhelmed by the sensation of flight, I stretch out my arms.
And that’s when I strangle that fat fuck …
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