Sweet

Predator Press

[LOBO]


"Whore!" yells Phoebe.

"Slut," snipes Babs through bared teeth, closing the door to my office behind her.

"Bitch," I says, looking up from my monitor.

"Excuse me?" says Phoebe.

"Sorry," I says. "That's just a reflex. What seems to be the problem here?"

"I'll tell you what the problem is," says Babs. "Someone has hogged the entire supply of Sweet'N Low."

I blink.

"The world's most popular sugar substitute," clarifies Phoebe.

Now after a brief moment reflecting how Predator Press has no affiliation with Sweet'N Low or any of their fine products, I finally says, "What?"

"We're not getting anymore for weeks!" cries Phoebe.

"Well you sure seem to have plenty," says Babs.

"I keep some in my desk, " says Phoebe. "It's more efficient. That way I'm not spending hours trolling around the water cooler for the new guy in the mailroom like some floozy."

"Tramp!" says Babs.

"Lot lizard!" I says reflexively. "Sorry. I'm trying to work on that. It seems to me you guys suspect each other of hoarding all the fine product of Sweet'N Low."

"Way to go, Captain Obvious," says Phoebe sarcastically.

"Look," I says annoyed. "I was just writing a ground-breaking expose on how well-respected, admired and loved Danny Bonaduce was recently assaulted by some guy named Jonny Fairplay." I glance at my monitor. "I mean Jonny Fairplay? That name is so obviously fake. I think it was the Mob. Now unless you two are going to engage in a sweaty, growling, nearly-naked and hot catfight, I need to get back to work."

Babs snaps her fingers repeatedly. "LOBO. Over here. We have a serious issue. Predator Press has a thief in her ranks."

"But what about Britney Spears?" I protest. "America's Sweetheart is obviously now embroiled in some very strange activity. I have to engage in the futile search for other 'strange activity' involving Britney that might refute my story," I argue. "It's called research. And it has turned out to be very difficult to not find evidence of Britney Spears being anything less than a pillar of the community. I've checked all my reliable sources: television and the internet. Even Google!" I grin darkly. "Britney is revered by all. This story is going to rock the world."

Babs and Phoebe stare at me in disbelief.

"Hey," I says. "If it's any consolation, I don't think either one of you did it. I think we need to be on the lookout for a really fat cat burglar."

I feel myself go pale.

"Oh my God. Is Phil okay?"

"You know," offers Phoebe, "Bonaduce kinda sounds like a fake name too."

"Precisely," I agree.

"You know," says Babs, "I've often wondered what Britney Spears and Danny Bonaduce's love child might look like."

"Me too," I says. "But I don't see any reason to involve Nick Nolte in this yet."

My iPhone chirps to life.

"LOBO?" says Ethan between abrupt static bursts.

"Yes sir," I says, peering into the tiny electronic wafer.

"Did you ever get around to buying me any more Sweet'N Low? I'm almost out."

Baseball Needs Shot Clock, Bikini Chicks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

See that picture on the left? That's the last "athlete" Major League Baseball traded to the LOBOnian Baseball Syndicate. WITNESS how he is drowning in the acid quicksand cleverly disguised as natural turf! Just imagine the horrific screams I was too lazy to record and turn into "mpegs" or whatever!

While still looking for sponsors, players, a place to play and a network to air it, LBS league baseball games take maybe a half hour, tops ... even though they play until one team scores 100 runs. This is because if you hold a ball for 8/16th of a second, it detonates. Even if you're an umpire.

The LBS has an 8 millisecond 'Shot Clock'. This means that even if it's a 96 mph fastball, you gotta sprint toward it, swinging desperately before you are struck out like an inferior specimen and we have to weed out your loser genetic strain and pathetic, inferior DNA from the face of the Earth once and for all.

The LBS keeps a far stricter drug policy than its puny competitors too: in this league, steroid abuse is absolutely mandatory. Why not have the greatest athletes modern science can provide for the card? Enraged monsters with big, throbbing forehead veins wielding baseball bats have been highly-valued entertainment for the whole family for eons. Now you can see them up close!

And what's with this pansy 4 base crap? The LBS has 56 completely randomized bases, each requiring a vine swing over flaming pits of starving alligators swimming in hydrogen peroxide and gasoline, culminating into a dramatic, spectacular slide through broken glass and ignited napalm. And rather than squishing all our bases in the same place, we spread 'em out. I got news for you: unless 80,000 well-armed fans for the other team stand between you and your next 'base' ala Halo 3 , you're a puss, and that 'base' barely qualifies as a disease-riddled biohazard truckstop crawling with lot lizards and overpriced NAPA products. In the LBS, getting to a base is worth 9 points, and it is celebrated by fireworks, more free booze and meth, a live performance by Korn, and scantily-clad dancing girls ... just like when we were kids.

What the hell ever happened to the 'baseball' we all grew up playing?

Will Ferrell Edits of Colin Farrell Sex Tape Released

Predator Press

[LOBO]

SOMEONE GET ME ICEPICKS TO DEEPLY STAB MY BRAIN THROUGH MY EYE SOCKETS.

PLEASE.

NOW!!!!!!

Aftermath

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Why do you keep screwing with Lindsay Lohan?" asks Nurse Garrison.

"Thut up!" I says.

"You realize she's pulled your tongue through your keyster, right?"

"Yeth I do, thankth."

The Final Conflict

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Lohan," I says. "I knew it!"

"Look," says Lohan. "See this hand?"

She shows me her gloved left fist, and then punches me with her right.

"I have nothing to do with all this crap," says Lohan. "I don't even know who you are. Now please stop writing about me, before my agents sue you into the Middle Ages."

"You don't fool me Lohan!" I says, sobbing courageously. "Although I would really appreciate it if you stopped punching me."

"Get back up you wuss!" she screams, kicking me in the stomach. "You're not getting off that easy."

"RDO would never threaten to ignite the atmosphere and wipe out all Humankind!" I protest though broken teeth. "I would delete his entire Halo 3 profile!"

"What?" I hear from my watch. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh yeah I would, RDO," I says into the watch, spitting dental shrapnel. "Just try me."

"You would sacrifice all my Halo 3 achievements for that scubby little planet?"

"It's your call Miss Lohan," I says, openly weeping.

"I'm not done beating you yet," she says.

"I'll wait," says RDO.

Welcome to the Fall

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now that it's virtually October, that means that one of my fave holidays is coming up.

Really, the only thing that sucks about Halloween is that it also means I finally gotta take down the Christmas Tree from last year.

I can reuse the coal and cinderblocks, but the razorwire has somehow lost it's gleaming holiday luster ...

This Land is My Land, This Land is My Land

Predator Press

[LOBO]

An Open Letter to Lindsay Lohan


Lindsay Lohan,

According to a web site I found, the United States --currently embroiled in a debate over immigration-- has 20 million illegal aliens within her borders. Stormtroopers are already dancing in the streets of Tokyo! Why have you convinced everyone that RDO is poised to ignite the Earth's atmosphere and wipe it clean of all life whatsoever?

I don’t know what evil scheme you’re hatching, but you’re scaring the hell out of Tom Cruise.

George Clooney narrowly escaping death by having a particularly nasty swatch of speeding blacktop crash into him 'an his poor motorcycle has your earmarks all over it: you ain't foolin nobody ... and I'm onto your whole "E Coli-China toys-Van Halen-George Bush" conspiracy too.

But for God's sake, why the stripper pole at Nipples Italy?

What the hell is wrong with you?

Why Lindsay?

Why?

Was Star Wars "Empire" Victim of Propaganda?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Aging Van Halen Still Kicks Ass

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After squandering the prime of their musical careers over bickering, tantrums and infighting, Van Halen is once again trying to capture their unprecedented thunderous '80s inertia and screw the fans out of a few more bucks.

Van Roth is a strange and quixotic enigma, providing a groundbreaking musical genius fused with no professionalism whatsoever and a c'est la vie attitude toward their fans. This was punctuated loudly by ditching even their own induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame earlier this year.

But the ever-inventive Van Roth has once again hatched a scheme to 'hold the ship together' long enough to squeeze out some new musical "art": this time they have wisely chosen to replace all the members with people that get along better

Don't get me wrong. I'm really excited that the guys will be picking up some new cars, summer homes, and "Mammoth" child support payments only previously achieved by NBA players. WTG and on with the show. But to be honest, I think I would have preferred a Pay-Per-View death match. You know, a "four men in, one comes out" kinda thing.

I think 'lil Wallety and I have other plans this year.

Bloggers Unite for a Good Cause

Predator Press

[LOBO]


On September 27, there was a lot of buzz about "Bloggers Uniting Against Abuse".

I kinda wanted to participate, but I couldn't really think of a topic. I'm pretty much a whore for the March of Dimes, but that hardly stacks up as "abuse".

And 'Abuse' topics are complicated when your blog's name is Predator Press; if I start putting up pics of abused and missing children, some whack job idiot is going to start misinterpreting stuff and bitching. Then I gotta find 'em, get their ass beat to a fine paste, and arrange their assassination as they are being released from the Emergency Room months later --way, way, way too much work that could be easily avoided with some prudent caution.

But I'm absolutely mystified I missed telemarketers: those intrusive pigs abuse all without discrimination.

I've screwed my share of telemarketers already: a buddy of mine heard me doing it, and has asked me to record a cd of it. I suck them in amiably, rack up massive purchases, and much much later --when it comes time for the Visa-- I just recite random numbers until they hang up.

But a day late for the "Abuse" stuff, I wanted to give you a chance to eradicate this vile pestilence scourge from the face of the Earth altogether:

After signing up at the Do Not Call Registry, in my "comments" field I want to share your collective anger, outrage and insights about telemarketing. I want stories, rants, fables, lies, plans, and outright outrageous creative thinking. I want fantasies about salted and rusty jagged catheters being torn out of their pasty and spongy, writhing, broken and rotting screaming bodies. I want smoky mesqite-flavored strategies involving gasoline and matches, and splatter-pattern jpegs from squishing them through a fine mess screen of acid-dipped razorwire.

This is my 'Cause'.

And I'm sticking to it.

Mayday

Predator Press

When Security Officer Rand took the job on the small mining facility four years ago, there were bad omens everywhere.

On the first day, the Chief of Operations gave him a tour of the facility. "Sometimes," says Doctor Richard Kief in a well-rehearsed, blasé tone. "We have accidents." Throwing the switch, the ore smelter screeched closed and a high-pitched alarm sounded. "It costs this facility $150,000 a minute to close these filters, because it stops production." Kief sort of spoke into the air around him, almost unaware of Rand. "I love to do that," he added.

As the searing liquid ore started to settle, the fluid became increasingly transparent. "Still," says Kief, "in the event of on ongoing Missing Person Investigation, it's company policy to look here."

Chills ran through Rand's spine, as he quietly imagined what he might see in there: the cloudy shadows of bobbing human remains.

Seeming to have read Rand's mind, Kief continues. "Depending on what cycle the smelting is, you're not going to see much left. Especially if it's been more than an hour or so. Probably just their gear if you're lucky." Kief stared into the glowing fluid.

"We have accidents," he repeated absently.



***

Four years later, Rand wiped the condensation from the cracked porthole with his thick glove, smearing it cloudy with blood. Seeing the station's wobbly, random trajectory and the floating debris of the station never failed to trigger a sense of vertigo.

He pressed the yellow button again. "SOS," he repeated. "This is acting Chief of Security Steven Rand of mining facility 77. We have been attacked."

The sound of his voice betrayed his fading hopes of rescue.

"I believe I am the sole survivor," he added. "Mayday."

Rand was starting to succumb to hypothermia. He wasn't shivering very much anymore. And he was getting sleepy. It was a mistake to sit at the console. Fatigue overtook him, and he pulled the blankets closer; this was almost a futile gesture as they no longer retained any heat.

"Mayday," he repeated, drifting off into slumber.

The sleep was not restful, as his mind churned the horrors over and over. Rand's mother called these things "Devil Marks"; the indelible mental leftovers of having witnessed a traumatic event.

There was no warning of the attack, save the moment when Kief blew his brains out with a .45 caliber pistol in this very chair. The attack came so suddenly afterward, the splatters were still all over the cockpit.

As for the attack itself, it was very surgical and precise; most of the station remained largely intact. It still held oxygen and it's internal pressure. But the inertial dampeners were destroyed, and the station could no longer keep it's "spin", and as a result there was no artificial gravity.

But the real danger was the hopelessly damaged temperature regulators; as the relentless cold of space overtook the failing heat in the vessel, any survivors --such as Rand-would be dead in a matter of hours.

They could just wait him out.

Tiredly, Rand woke again. He didn't know how long he had been out this time. Weakly, he rubbed his glove against the glass one more time, but the condensation and blood had frozen solidly.

As he leaned in closely in an attempt to peer through the opaque window, Kief's frozen blood cracked and snapped as is separated from Rand's suit and the chair.

Rand saw nothing.

Even the debris was gone.

He pressed the yellow button.

"Mayday," he slurred, before drifting into sleep one last time.