Complicating Matters

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Contrary to popular belief, faking paralysis for sponge baths is fraught with peril.

They stop giving you anesthetics for one. And before long they are doing agonizing and cruel, inhumane things to your supposedly sensory-free flesh.

You wouldn’t believe how much starch they put in these sheets.

Body Up

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

Ethan, in an ill-fitting Letterman jacket, waved the VT pennant I gave him with little animation or interest.

“Is this so you can work on that new line of children’s books you’ve been talking about?” he asks.

“No,” I says, cleaning off my desk. There really isn’t all that much to pack ... I was hoping if I was quick enough, I could avoid this exact confrontation.

“But why Canada?” he moped.

“We’re having accreditation issues locally,” I reply.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Ethan complained. “With LOBO missing, I might even have to call Cobe back.”

“You should really rethink that sir,” I says, choosing my words carefully. “I mean face it, when the going got tough, the ‘tough’ were long gone.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think you should pick your companions more carefully,” I shrug.

“Yeah, well … I hired you, and you’re going too.”

“Yes, but Ethan, I’m tired,” I says. “Give me some credit. For months, my life has been doing nothing but revolve around this--“ I look around the barren office, and I’m unable to capture anything tangible. I give up and shrug, “I just can’t be the only grown-up anymore.”

“Don't do this," sighs Ethan. "Not now. We just lost Gerald Ford --and soon Saddam Hussein-- two of our most influential and ardent fans. Mr. Insanity, this one of our darkest days.”

Sliding the heavy banker box off of the desk, I pause. “Seth,” I says.

“What?”

“My name is Seth.”

“How have you been cashing your paychecks?”

“I opened a checking account for the horse.”

The Ballad of Mr Insanity

Predator Press

[Cobe]

Last April, a thirsty Ethan and LOBO pulled into an Off Track Betting facility.

“So what are we gonna do with Captain Burlap in the trunk?” LOBO says, unfolding his menu.

“Ask him about the odds on the 5th race.”

“Look, he’s not a calculatron,” says LOBO. “He’s a guy that was hanging out in front of a drug store near Oxford University with a broken shoelace.”

“Which obviously makes him a 187 pound mathematical savant.”

“I’m not arguing about his mathematic prowess,” LOBO repeats. “I’m just saying he’s been in our trunk for 16 hours. He’s probably hungry.”

“So get him some French fries.”

“I’m not buying fries for someone that has been trapped in my trunk for 16 hours.”

“Just look at that horse,” says a distracted Ethan, pointing at one of 452 closely-joined monitors. In the bottom right corner, ESPN identified a singular steed as “Mister Insanity” that was smashing the crap out of everything in sight.

Within moments, that horse drove off the gate, kicked the head off his own jockey, crushed the race’s announcer in the skybox, and finally screeched to a halt across the finish line.

Then the race started.

LOBO lost $100.

Yeah, Thanks For That Whole "Gravity" Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Thanks to Isaac Newtron inventing gravity, my daring plan to escape the hospital by jumping out of the eleventh story window hurt like hell. Next thing I know, I hear an ambulance engine start, the sirens go off, the thing drives sixteen feet and then screeches to a halt next to me.

And then a bunch of assholes drag me right back into the hospital.

This is going to be tougher than I thought.

Fuck you, Isaac Newtron.

The Cathouse Mouse

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m really disappointed in the lack of public outcry on this blog as of late; according to ‘Spellcheck’, that last post brazenly said “breast” at least twice.

I, a devout religious follower, am deeply offended for some reason.

I would’ve at least sent an angry email to us assholes were I not forgotten in the ICU due to Santa’s treachery, blinking my post in Morse code (like mom taught me) to a registered nurse.

You all should be ashamed of yourselves.

It Could Happen

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

I brought Bertha.

There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.

Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.

She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.

And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.

Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.

I like how they taste on her breath.

I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.

But Phoebe was clocking me.

“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”

“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”

Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”


***

“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“

Tat

Predator Press

[Cobe]

If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.

To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.

Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.

This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.

It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.

As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.

Mmmm … battered defenses.

Catlike Reflexes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I’ve escaped the hospital to give you the football picks.

Plus, if I don’t show up for work between now and the 31st, my insurance will run out. I don’t know if you’ve ever been thrown into a dumpster full of biological waste and used hypodermics before, but let me tell you: it’s not pleasant.

The Bears are playing the Packers tonight, and I’m leaning toward the Packers.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not rooting for the Packers. But Brett is a retiring and jazzed veteran seasoned on playing against the Bears; he’s gonna rip into any sloppy playing he sees.

Maybe my Morse code is a little rusty though. I thought I had blinked all this fairly rationaly up on the eleventh floor, but Nurse Garrison seemed to feel like I was rooting for the Soviets. I heard that rubber glove snap, and reflexively leapt out the nearest window.

I hope this doesn't bust my laptop.

Merry Christmas!

Flea Flicker

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

LOBO is strangely absent on this fine day.

For a guy who is virtually unemployed, sleeps till 10 in the morning, et cetera, he sure doesn't have very much time for anything it seems; under Ethan’s instruction, I went to his house … but he didn't answer the door. On his doorknob was a "Sorry We Missed You" note from a plumbing company, and tiny handwritten scrawl at the bottom said something angry about a quarter.

His absence is doubly odd and distressing in that this is the day Predator Press debuts our new game “Killball” on a variety of obscure cable channels. Of the three of us as I recall, LOBO was the most excited; this marked his first time on television he didn't have to eat bugs or marry a millionaire.

Nonetheless, without our tie-breaking official, we continued flying the "missing man" formation. Assembled below us, suited up and ready to play, are all the members of the National Killball League: Max, Brighta and Vetter.

Currently, it’s a very small league.

“Now how do we play again?” Max yells up to Ethan.

“C’mon guys,” yells Ethan. Exasperated, he lowers his rifle. “It couldn’t be simpler! All you have to do is get across the mined playing field by leaping or swinging across all eight of the flaming, acid-filled pits of starving robot alligators in order to intercept the 'Skimmer'. The job of the defense is to keep the Skimmer,” Ethan points at a nervous-looking Vetter who is strapped into a giant slingshot-like device, “from breaking the plane of the End Zone, also referred to as that brick wall over there. If he breaks that plane, that will incur a penalty against the other team.”

“How do we score?”

“Score?”

Suddenly, Ethan’s cell rings.

“Really?” he says into the phone. “On Christmas? Wow that’s terrible. Okay.” He hangs up, and tugs my sleeve.

“Cobe called off. Says his house burned down.”

“Called off?” I says. “Wow. He is so fired.”

Ethan blows the whistle. "Play ball!" he yells.

"What ball?" yells Brighta.

I watch Ethan rub his temples. "Well, don't worry about Cobe, sir. What kind of an asshole works on Christmas anyway?"

To the Wolves

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I’ll admit, rigging Cobe’s place wore me out. I was snoring so loudly, I never even heard the fat fuck sneak in.

Through the front door.

Atlas, I'm thinking, the best laid mice of men and plans.

“Hi Santa,” I says, rubbing my eyes. “Want a cookie?”

Santa eyes me, stroking his beard. “I was very surprised to have to come to you this year,” he says. “You did one lousy good deed.”

“Was it showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his porn bookmarks at work?”

“No, it was what you did for Sapphire,” says Santa. “It took real character to recognize that you were no good for her.”

“Do I get extra for showing Mr. Insanity how to hide his—?“

“Look, just shut up before I change my mind. While Ethan, Mr. Insanity, and Phoebe were all supposedly in Hollywood negotiating the sequel to the Ox Nuts trilogy, they were really working closely with RDO in order to develop your Christmas present.”

“So what did you get me?”

“God you’re an asshole,” Santa sighs. “I’m here to present you with Sapphire v3.0. This one is fusion powered, thus not requiring battery changes. And she’s twice as durable and deadly than the original.”

“Is she hot?”

“See for yourself,” chuckles Santa merrily. “She should be arriving on the roof any second.”