[LOBO]
Thursday
Pontius Pirate
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I watched Sapphire crunch through the pile of skeletons as she made her way from the car to the front door. While the carnivorous cicadas eyed her warily, they appeared disinterested in dining on the advanced synthetic plastics and alloys she was constructed from.
To them, she's the human equivalent of tofu.
Half of the entire town has been wiped out. Their skeletons, scattered and twisted in agonized poses, were baking dry in the noonday sun.
It's the biblical Plague of Locusts.
Armageddon.
--Jerry Falwell must've told Jesus about Sanjaya.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Who is it?" I ask.
"It's me, dumbass," says Sapphire.
"How do I know it's really you, and not some particularly intelligent cicada?"
"Open this goddamn door," demands the voice, "or I'll pull your tongue through your keyster!"
"It is you!" I says, letting her in quickly. "Thank God you came."
"What happened here? Why are there so many bodies in the lawn?"
I point at a group of skeletons sprinkled with gardening tools. "Well, in chronological order, those guys are gardeners. Those guys are the Fire Department, who I called to rescue the gardeners. Those guys are the cops I called to rescue the Fire Department. And that's what's left of the pizza delivery guy."
"Why did you call the pizza delivery guy?"
"I was hungry."
[LOBO]
I watched Sapphire crunch through the pile of skeletons as she made her way from the car to the front door. While the carnivorous cicadas eyed her warily, they appeared disinterested in dining on the advanced synthetic plastics and alloys she was constructed from.
To them, she's the human equivalent of tofu.
Half of the entire town has been wiped out. Their skeletons, scattered and twisted in agonized poses, were baking dry in the noonday sun.
It's the biblical Plague of Locusts.
Armageddon.
--Jerry Falwell must've told Jesus about Sanjaya.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Who is it?" I ask.
"It's me, dumbass," says Sapphire.
"How do I know it's really you, and not some particularly intelligent cicada?"
"Open this goddamn door," demands the voice, "or I'll pull your tongue through your keyster!"
"It is you!" I says, letting her in quickly. "Thank God you came."
"What happened here? Why are there so many bodies in the lawn?"
I point at a group of skeletons sprinkled with gardening tools. "Well, in chronological order, those guys are gardeners. Those guys are the Fire Department, who I called to rescue the gardeners. Those guys are the cops I called to rescue the Fire Department. And that's what's left of the pizza delivery guy."
"Why did you call the pizza delivery guy?"
"I was hungry."
Wednesday
The Great Al Fresco
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.
Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?
I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"
Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.
"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"10:30 in the morning," says the man.
"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"
"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."
I pause. "Really?"
"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"
"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."
"Of course sir," he says.
"How much do you charge?"
"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."
"Deal," I says.
"Can I start now?"
"Absolutely," I says.
This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.
***
Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.
Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.
"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."
Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.
His back arched up.
What the hell?
I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.
Al shovels another load of dirt.
Phil growls.
I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.
And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.
Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.
Cicadas.
--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.
Brood XIII.
Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.
Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Thousands.
Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.
Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.
I speed-dial number "1".
"Yes," says a voice.
"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"
[LOBO]
I was rudely awakened by a knock at Mr Insanity's door.
Who in the hell would be knocking at this hour?
I yawned and stretched, "I'm coming!"
Wincing in the bright light, and see a man with tough-looking pitted tanned skin. He's carrying a shovel over his shoulder. His eyes, bright and intelligent, belie his apparent advanced age, and his smile reveals overly-large, bright white teeth.
"My God man!" I complain in the sun. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"10:30 in the morning," says the man.
"Well, try and show a little courtesy," I says reproaching. "Some people are still trying to sleep at this hour!"
"My apologies," says the man, still grinning. He removes his faded, beaten hat. "My name is Al Fresco, and I am the finest gardener in Illinois."
I pause. "Really?"
"Yes sir," he says. "I was just trying to scrounge up some work, and I saw your yard in somewhat of an advanced state of-"
"Hold it right there buddy," I says. "This is Mr Insanity's yard. Don't go blaming me for his laziness."
"Of course sir," he says.
"How much do you charge?"
"I will do the preliminary work for $100, and then I will come back every week to do maintenance for another $20."
"Deal," I says.
"Can I start now?"
"Absolutely," I says.
This is really cool, I'm thinking. If this works out, I can go back to sleep.
***
Deciding to take a few moments to evaluate the man's work ethic, Phil and I sat watching out the living room window as Al Fresco prepared. After retrieving his various tools from the truck he paused for a second, wiping his wet forehead with his hat contemplatively.
Then, he pointed the shovel into the ground and plunged it in with seemingly little effort.
"Well, Phil," I smile at the cat. "It looks like our new friend Al is going to work out just fine."
Staring out the window, Phil froze suddenly.
His back arched up.
What the hell?
I examine the rather unspectacular scene closely and see nothing.
Al shovels another load of dirt.
Phil growls.
I lean toward the window, still seeing nothing.
And then I realize that the ground is subtly moving.
Just a little at first ... in random patches. But within moments, the very Earth is seething in movement.
Cicadas.
--Of the order Hemiptera, suborder Auchenorrhyncha, in the superfamily Cicadoidea.
Brood XIII.
Still digging, Al Fresco notices nothing as the huge swarm emerges around him, ravenous from their 17-year fast. In seconds, there are hundreds of thousands of the bloodthirsty beasts, and Al is startled by the steady shriek of hungered frenzy. Suddenly aware of them, he drops his shovel and runs for the door. But it's too late I realize when he rings the doorbell for the eighth time: a hideously large cicada leapt into his eye, and burrowed his way into Al's tasty brains.
Al screamed, tearing at his face -but this only excited the frenzied creatures: another attacked, tearing into the exposed flesh of his arm. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Thousands.
Al Fresco's bones were picked clean before they even fell to the ground.
Unable to take my eyes from the horrific scene, I slowly reach for my phone.
I speed-dial number "1".
"Yes," says a voice.
"Uh, Ethan?" I says. "I'm not coming to work today."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later," I says. "But do you know any fat gardeners that would come over in an emergency?"
Tuesday
Landscapegoating
Predator Press
[LOBO]
My job and house-hunting have been keeping me very busy.
And today, I'm supposed to mow Mr Insanity's lawn in his absence.
But I have a sacred duty to you o loyal reader; thwarting the onslaught of the green menace must wait!
Shocked that some of you are still getting your news from irresponsible news sources like CNN and FOX rather than Predator Press, my main concern today is over the reporting of the afore mentioned mainstream media.
Often, it's what's not said that make up the most well-embraced and magnificent lies of our world. For example, the Lisa Stebic disappearance; this weekend, a story trickled out that an "unnamed source" had revealed that some of Lisa Stebic's blood had been found in her husband's vehicle. By Monday, the story was not surprisingly being reported as coming from "numerous sources".
The media, essentially, was citing itself.
In contrast, Predator Press never cites anybody.
In another example, yesterday I was pretending to read the newspaper, and there was an article about some someone trying to push legislation through to make it illegal to use horses for food.
Now personally, I maintain a strictly-disciplined vegan, vegetarian, meat, poultry and fish diet. Still, with the rare exception of horse de oeuvres, I don't eat horse.
A horse is a big animal.
A horse could kick your ass.
Plus they make lousy pets. It's hard to get an apartment when you have a pet horse. And housebreaking one? Ewe!
So I can only imagine this new legislation coming from extreme groups like "The People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals", aka "PETA". We already agree that aside from glue and keeping blacksmiths on the Liberal Dole, the horse is a pretty damn useless animal overall, right? So where is PETA going with this? And isn't the demand for food essentially 'static'? I mean, if whoever is eating horses becomes forbidden to eat them, wouldn't they just move on to something else? Like puppies and baby seals?
You see here is where Predator Press becomes relevant. Augmented with my radiant braniosity, we've seen straight through the bull and uncovered what is quite possibly the biggest story this year to date:
PETA isn't interested in animals at all.
They want to kill plants.
While the explicit reason for PETA's well-documented anti-foliage conspiracy for murderous rampage isn't clear, this thinly-veiled cabal has been actively pursuing the decimation of the plant population for years now.
Looking out over Mr Insanity's overgrown yard, I'm considering making PETA a sizable donation ....
[LOBO]
My job and house-hunting have been keeping me very busy.
And today, I'm supposed to mow Mr Insanity's lawn in his absence.
But I have a sacred duty to you o loyal reader; thwarting the onslaught of the green menace must wait!
Shocked that some of you are still getting your news from irresponsible news sources like CNN and FOX rather than Predator Press, my main concern today is over the reporting of the afore mentioned mainstream media.
Often, it's what's not said that make up the most well-embraced and magnificent lies of our world. For example, the Lisa Stebic disappearance; this weekend, a story trickled out that an "unnamed source" had revealed that some of Lisa Stebic's blood had been found in her husband's vehicle. By Monday, the story was not surprisingly being reported as coming from "numerous sources".
The media, essentially, was citing itself.
In contrast, Predator Press never cites anybody.
In another example, yesterday I was pretending to read the newspaper, and there was an article about some someone trying to push legislation through to make it illegal to use horses for food.
Now personally, I maintain a strictly-disciplined vegan, vegetarian, meat, poultry and fish diet. Still, with the rare exception of horse de oeuvres, I don't eat horse.
A horse is a big animal.
A horse could kick your ass.
Plus they make lousy pets. It's hard to get an apartment when you have a pet horse. And housebreaking one? Ewe!
So I can only imagine this new legislation coming from extreme groups like "The People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals", aka "PETA". We already agree that aside from glue and keeping blacksmiths on the Liberal Dole, the horse is a pretty damn useless animal overall, right? So where is PETA going with this? And isn't the demand for food essentially 'static'? I mean, if whoever is eating horses becomes forbidden to eat them, wouldn't they just move on to something else? Like puppies and baby seals?
You see here is where Predator Press becomes relevant. Augmented with my radiant braniosity, we've seen straight through the bull and uncovered what is quite possibly the biggest story this year to date:
They want to kill plants.
Looking out over Mr Insanity's overgrown yard, I'm considering making PETA a sizable donation ....
Sunday
The Sound and the Furious
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The strange, screaming woman on the phone informed me that my alimony payments were late.
"Of course they're late," I explain frantically. "I didn't even know about them until now!"
I put the phone in a drawer, but could still hear it. I tried leaving it at the other end of the house with the same results. Honestly, it was either appease this angry woman somehow, or throw the phone into Mr Insanity's pool ... but it looked like a really expensive phone.
I finally just mailed her Ethan's Super Triple Platinum card.
How I could have married such a disagreeable woman completely defies explanation.
... She must be hot.
[LOBO]
The strange, screaming woman on the phone informed me that my alimony payments were late.
"Of course they're late," I explain frantically. "I didn't even know about them until now!"
I put the phone in a drawer, but could still hear it. I tried leaving it at the other end of the house with the same results. Honestly, it was either appease this angry woman somehow, or throw the phone into Mr Insanity's pool ... but it looked like a really expensive phone.
I finally just mailed her Ethan's Super Triple Platinum card.
How I could have married such a disagreeable woman completely defies explanation.
... She must be hot.
Saturday
Oh Darling
Predator Press
[Mr Insanity]
I haven't been able to write very frequently lately; my job has me traveling a lot.
So a six hour delay had me arriving from Quebec at the Dash Cunning International Airport at 9:00 pm.
Then my car broke down.
I ended up dragging myself and my luggage in the house at 2:00 am; LOBO and Phil, still house-hunting since the fire, were sleeping soundly on the couch.
The last thing I remember was collapsing on my bed face-first, and dreaming fitfully of inane conversations in Spanish.
Then my cell rang.
I answered groggily to a hideous, blood-curdling screech I haven't heard since I was married.
Oddly enough, it was my ex wife; she neglected to fax an annual document to the courthouse, and this caused a delay in my alimony payments to her.
I mean who the fuck pays alimony these days?
***
Now when you get divorced, doesn't that mean explicitly that you don't have to wake up like this anymore? Isn’t it tacitly implied? I paid a lot of money for that divorce. That was a damn fine divorce I might add: if I was going to get fucked, I was going to score some dinner and dancing first.
We even threw a party.
Yet here she is.
If I listen too long, I decide, she will make me gay.
I hung up, and grabbed my bags.
Fuck this. I'm going back to Canada.
Do I have to pay alimony in Canada?
As I struggled my bags though the hall the phone rang again, and LOBO sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Hey," he yawns cheerily.
I toss my ringing phone into his lap.
"It's for you," I says, leaving.
Divorce, my friends, is a complete rip-off.
Go with murder.
[Mr Insanity]
I haven't been able to write very frequently lately; my job has me traveling a lot.
So a six hour delay had me arriving from Quebec at the Dash Cunning International Airport at 9:00 pm.
Then my car broke down.
I ended up dragging myself and my luggage in the house at 2:00 am; LOBO and Phil, still house-hunting since the fire, were sleeping soundly on the couch.
The last thing I remember was collapsing on my bed face-first, and dreaming fitfully of inane conversations in Spanish.
Then my cell rang.
I answered groggily to a hideous, blood-curdling screech I haven't heard since I was married.
Oddly enough, it was my ex wife; she neglected to fax an annual document to the courthouse, and this caused a delay in my alimony payments to her.
I mean who the fuck pays alimony these days?
Now when you get divorced, doesn't that mean explicitly that you don't have to wake up like this anymore? Isn’t it tacitly implied? I paid a lot of money for that divorce. That was a damn fine divorce I might add: if I was going to get fucked, I was going to score some dinner and dancing first.
We even threw a party.
Yet here she is.
If I listen too long, I decide, she will make me gay.
I hung up, and grabbed my bags.
Fuck this. I'm going back to Canada.
Do I have to pay alimony in Canada?
As I struggled my bags though the hall the phone rang again, and LOBO sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Hey," he yawns cheerily.
I toss my ringing phone into his lap.
"It's for you," I says, leaving.
Divorce, my friends, is a complete rip-off.
Go with murder.
Friday
On Top
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Babs,” I says into the prison phone. “You look great. Make up, hot outfit … it’s totally amazing how well you’re doing in here.”
“Thanks,” she spits. Snapping her fingers, she points at a guard. “You. Bring me a sifter of cognac.” Eyeing LOBO, she adds, “Make that a double.”
“Sure thing sugar,” says the guard.
“Wow,” I says, dazzled. You’re practically running the place now. But why is your lipstick all messed up? And why are you always brushing your teeth?”
“When are you getting me out of here?”
“Why would you want to get out? Hell, with all those chicks in there, I wanna get in. I'm tired of hanging out in the parking lot and getting rebuffed by the parolees. Can you imagine how much action I would probably somehow not get if was inside? I've already started a tunnel!”
“LOBO, please. I want out. To see birds in the blue sky--”
“Birds!?” I interrupt. “Listen baby, there are three rules in life you need to follow. The first is Don’t eat egg salad sandwiches out of vending machines. The second is Always wear underwear because your zipper conducts electricity. And the third is Never ever ever trust an animal that doesn’t have the decency to be on the ground when it takes a crap.”
[LOBO]
“Babs,” I says into the prison phone. “You look great. Make up, hot outfit … it’s totally amazing how well you’re doing in here.”
“Thanks,” she spits. Snapping her fingers, she points at a guard. “You. Bring me a sifter of cognac.” Eyeing LOBO, she adds, “Make that a double.”
“Sure thing sugar,” says the guard.
“Wow,” I says, dazzled. You’re practically running the place now. But why is your lipstick all messed up? And why are you always brushing your teeth?”
“When are you getting me out of here?”
“Why would you want to get out? Hell, with all those chicks in there, I wanna get in. I'm tired of hanging out in the parking lot and getting rebuffed by the parolees. Can you imagine how much action I would probably somehow not get if was inside? I've already started a tunnel!”
“LOBO, please. I want out. To see birds in the blue sky--”
“Birds!?” I interrupt. “Listen baby, there are three rules in life you need to follow. The first is Don’t eat egg salad sandwiches out of vending machines. The second is Always wear underwear because your zipper conducts electricity. And the third is Never ever ever trust an animal that doesn’t have the decency to be on the ground when it takes a crap.”
Wednesday
Insomnia
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Phil can't sleep.
And as a consequence, neither can I.
Yes, I know cats are naturally nocturnal. But I've had Phil for about a year now, and usually he's pretty content and peaceful at night. Lately he's just so fidgety; in and out of bed, meowing at absolutely nothing ... I just don't get it.
This is becoming a problem; I absolutely need eight hours of sleep at night -as well as four or five during the day- or I can't function at all.
Whatever angst and anxieties are riddling Phil are slowly deteriorating my vice-like grip on sanity; often in the quiet darkness, I swear I hear a soft, tinny voice repeatedly asking for someone named 'Templeton', followed by another, doggedly replying "Hola!"
But that's nothing; last night Phil was curled up on my pillow and I heard a full-on conversation:
Voice: Templeton?
Other Voice: Buenas noches!
Voice: Ah, hmmm ... Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?
Other Voice: Si. Yo comprendo.
Voice: ¿Habla usted inglés?
Other Voice: No.
Voice: Hablo un poco español. ¿Dónde esta el baño?
Other Voice: ¿Cómo?
Voice: Un momento.
Other Voice: Está Bien; Muy bien.
Goddamn it, this goes on for hours.
[LOBO]
Phil can't sleep.
And as a consequence, neither can I.
Yes, I know cats are naturally nocturnal. But I've had Phil for about a year now, and usually he's pretty content and peaceful at night. Lately he's just so fidgety; in and out of bed, meowing at absolutely nothing ... I just don't get it.
This is becoming a problem; I absolutely need eight hours of sleep at night -as well as four or five during the day- or I can't function at all.
Whatever angst and anxieties are riddling Phil are slowly deteriorating my vice-like grip on sanity; often in the quiet darkness, I swear I hear a soft, tinny voice repeatedly asking for someone named 'Templeton', followed by another, doggedly replying "Hola!"
But that's nothing; last night Phil was curled up on my pillow and I heard a full-on conversation:
Voice: Templeton?
Other Voice: Buenas noches!
Voice: Ah, hmmm ... Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?
Other Voice: Si. Yo comprendo.
Voice: ¿Habla usted inglés?
Other Voice: No.
Voice: Hablo un poco español. ¿Dónde esta el baño?
Other Voice: ¿Cómo?
Voice: Un momento.
Other Voice: Está Bien; Muy bien.
Goddamn it, this goes on for hours.
Monday
Bundle of Joy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Because all the neighborhood kids think it's fun pushing the Chick Magnet back into my driveway every time I try to leave the house 'cuz it only has 3rd gear anymore, Gilmore and I get stuck buying flowers for Mother's Day together.
--I don't know how much longer I can complain.
"Nobody buys me flowers for getting laid," I protest.
"How would you know?"
"Hey, I get plenty of action," I says as we get in line at the cashier. "Chicks dig me." I put my hands behind my head and sigh. "Yep, I've wrecked more than my share of uterus."
"I'll bet," says Gilmore.
"'The General' is longer 'n Bill Gates' password!"
"That will be $300," says the florist. "Will that be all for you gentlemen?"
"Can we get a big side of ranch dressing?" I says. "And does this come with a baked potato?"
[LOBO]
Because all the neighborhood kids think it's fun pushing the Chick Magnet back into my driveway every time I try to leave the house 'cuz it only has 3rd gear anymore, Gilmore and I get stuck buying flowers for Mother's Day together.
--I don't know how much longer I can complain.
"Nobody buys me flowers for getting laid," I protest.
"How would you know?"
"Hey, I get plenty of action," I says as we get in line at the cashier. "Chicks dig me." I put my hands behind my head and sigh. "Yep, I've wrecked more than my share of uterus."
"I'll bet," says Gilmore.
"'The General' is longer 'n Bill Gates' password!"
"That will be $300," says the florist. "Will that be all for you gentlemen?"
"Can we get a big side of ranch dressing?" I says. "And does this come with a baked potato?"
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