The Eightfold Wrath

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must admit, becoming an official honorary White Belt in karate has significantly affected my self-image.

When you are a trained killing machine -a living weapon- you walk a little taller.

With more confidence.

Command, if you will.

But karate is also a strict discipline. It is for self defense ... not jacking up some guy that looks at you weird at the gas station.

Violence is always the last resort.

So just so I ain't gotta rip the neck of of some smack-talkin' ne'er do well punk blissfully ignorant of my killing prowess, I wear my karate pajamas everywhere.

As a warning.

... and I gotta tell you, these are way more effective than my Batman pajamas ever were.

American Bad Ass

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, the Cardinal Fitness thing -my New Year's Resolution- hasn't really panned, so LadyTerri and I have been trying to get creative. She made me promise to spend three hours a week at the gym, and frankly I can't take that much tanning: I look like a disoriented lobster, and everyone complains the booth smells like bacon for hours afterwards.

So she says, "Why don't you try Karate?"

Well, I figured that 'Karate' was some kind of exotic takeout.

Maybe a cologne.

But it turns out it's like kickboxing and crap.

As the last Grand Master of the lost Peking Duck martial arts style, I figure fine: I can hide under or behind anything virtually instantly (Muay Thai legend says it can only be learned in a vision during intense meditation, but I posses this innate ability anytime I don't want my ass kicked at Denny's). How bad could this 'Karate' thing be then? It's just another martial art, right? We all put on our pajamas and go to the dojo and powernap for two hours? I'm down with that.

While initially pleased that my Peking Duck expertise had provided me an honorary status of 'White Belt', it soon became apparent that this was not a very high rank: I was being trained with a teeny-tiny squad of precocious little 5-year-olds.

And honestly? It got pretty boring after five or six weeks: I could kick the crap out of every single one those little chumps ... and I got trophys to prove it. I would waste them little bastards too: I once made the challenger watch me savagely amputate his own stuffed toy Barney tail before beating him severely with it while listening to Slayer on my headphones. I was like an evil Jackie Chan: there were little GI Joe parts 'an Pokemon cards flyin' everywhere.

But rather than finally promoting me a rank, Grand Master Futon called the cops.

I think he was afraid of my potential.

The Number You Have Dialed HAS A LIFE

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Teenagers spend a lot of time on the phone.

They are very busy and important people.

And I'm okay with that. Seriously. It's not fucking up my bandwidth all that much.

But they call a lot.

Nobody has called me since 2002, and I kinda liked it that way. But now, the same person will call four times in a row. And not just leave a message and move on, but just call and call.

And call.


***

I mean if you call once and you choose not to leave a message, I get that. You wanted to talk to the person live. Nothing particularly important.

The second call presupposes something like you were in the shower. While toweling suds out of your eyes, you make a heroic effort for the phone ... but just as you get there, the call switches to voicemail and the dripping water shorts out your Caller ID.

I can sympathize.

But the third call always makes me wonder what exactly this particular teenager is telling people about the size of our place. Okay: maybe you're in the pool. And while drying off the phone starts ringing again and you realize you've locked yourself out of the house ... and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger start to churn through the outer perimeters of your hedge maze.

But a fourth call?

I'm totally bewildered.

Okay this scenario suggests that you've had your calls forwarded to the 7-11. And as you pour your Slurpee, a crashing meteor wipes out all mankind and accidentally creates flesh eating zombies: it's only then you realize you've locked yourself out of the church, and off in the distance you can hear Freddy Krueger; all civilization as we know it has come to an abrupt and bitter end, and one lone human being is crying out for help as the frail atmosphere is being sucked violently from Earth by a black hole.

Frankly, I still wouldn't answer: I would obviously have my own problems to deal with.

... and humanity's last Slurpee.

Eruption

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I can't argue against myself having taken sloth to an unprecedented indolent level never before witnessed by humankind.

As an example, before I started this post I made myself a glass of water. But I left it on the bookshelf -a scant and tantalizing eight inches from my current reach.

Now I'm thirsty, and I can't think of anyone I can email to help me here. I would call someone, but the phone is in the other room ... it would be easier just to get the damn water myself!

From deep in the recesses of my mind, sketchy biology class memories scream to frail and failing survival instincts: no animal can survive extended periods of time without water. It's one of our most basic and essential needs.

How long can we go?

Days?

Hours?


***

Normally the lovely LadyTerri would assist, but she just hasn't been the same since we hadda cancel our Hawaiian vacation. Who knew there was a spending cap on volcano insurance? To hell with Hawaii! Has this woman no conception that I might very well die here?

And then she will have to explain to millions and millions of heartbroken Predator Press fans all over the world how their beloved LOBO was turned to dehydrated and crumbling dust right at his PC. She alone will be responsible for the subsequent mass self-immolations and hoards of people leaping from tall buildings! Future generations will build colossal statues and effigies to commemorate my far-too-brief existence, but it will never slate their immeasurable grief; all that will remain of the Earth will be a cold and lonely, LOBOless sphere drifting aimlessly through the empty void.

And sure maybe some new guy will come along: indeed in the Cosmic Scheme there is always a miniscule, infinitesimal chance that a cheap replica that looks, acts, thinks and Enlightens you people as good me will happen. But what if this guy is a loser? What if ten people come over to get this guy his water, and suddenly they spot him scratching off lottery tickets with what used to be their 'Earned Income Credits'?


***

It's really Hawaii's fault if you think about it. I mean volcanoes? For a state with an economy based on tourism, what fucking genius thought volcanoes was a good idea? Do you see any volcanoes in Vegas, Disneyland or Paris? No. Know why? Because volcanoes can fucking kill you! Why don't we just vacation in a pile of dirty needles? If I went to a travel agent and saw a poster of a volcano and a pile of dirty needles on the wall, I would opt for the dirty needles -assuming they weren't anywhere close to a volcano, of course.

Don't get me wrong. I love vacations. I just hate going on them. I work hard to get my stuff, and like the leisure time to enjoy it. Why would I want to pay a lot of money to go somewhere where my stuff isn't?

And if I go on vacation, who will commission the construction of my much-needed blogging aqueduct?

Hm?

Bittersweet Symphony

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So you fell down an elevator shaft," says Nurse Garrison.

"No," I correct. "I jumped down an elevator shaft. Lord Likely wanted to cut the elevator cable so the horses pulling it would be free and the townspeople could go summon help."

Glancing up from her clipboard, she sighs. "Your wife called. She's on her way."

"Thank you for notifying her," I says.

"She's very worried," Nurse Garrison shrugs. Inspecting a tiny scrap of paper through her glasses she adds, "Evidently your 'Driving Into a Lake or Volcano' insurance expired on the 4th."

"Dammit!" I complain. "There goes our Hawaiian vacation. She's going to kill me."

"I thought she was kidding," says the Nurse. Peering over her glasses, she appears strangely incredulous. "You still have a Driver's License?"

"I got better'n that," I says. Flipping open my wallet, I show her my polished badge.

Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Nurse Garrison reads it aloud:

LOBO
Head of Secret Zombie
and Boogeyman Prevention
for Liberty and Justice.

"This has the Presidential Seal," she comments.

"So it should. The SZBPFLJ -as the blissfully unaware public so likes to pronounce it- was commissioned in February of 2002 by President George Bush himself."

"This badge implies you are a Federal Agent. It's got to be a Federal Offense to present it."

"And I never understood that," I agree. "That would never stop zombies or the Boogeyman from trying to impersonate me. George can be very frustrating."

"It says 'Made in Taiwan'."

"Cut me some slack," I reply. "I'm lying as fast as I can."

Best Squishes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I am always startled to hear a woman claim she doesn’t own a vibrator.

... I mean, what, are you nuts?

There really isn't any social stigma about it anymore, either. Let’s conduct an experiment: All you ladies who do not own a vibrator, please raise your hand.

Now look over the edge of your cubicle. Do you see any hands other than your own?

Ladies, ladies … this is, like, the Twenty-First Century or something; there are tiny, concealable, subtle technologies available that can bring you instant sexual gratification virtually anywhere!

I wish men were so lucky.

If that was true for us, we would carry them proudly displayed on leather tool belts -customized with a "quick draw" feature- and probably have an emergency holdout stashed in our boot.

We would have them in the file cabinets, and several would be rolling about the floorboard of the car.

One would be welded on the television remote, a half dozen would be forgotten between the mattresses and under pillows, and backups would arrive in the mail in virtual perpetuity (one by land, two by sea, et cetera).


***

It is long overdue for women to cast off these iron chains of sexual repression, and raise those little colorful plastic bastards in the air to be counted! Use them defiantly on busses, trains, and airplanes. Use them on the subway and in the library. And make that statement all across the world: hold massive “Buzz-Ins” at City Hall to be broadcast on CNN and the BBC until power plants fail and the city lights flicker and dim.

Civilization as we know it will grind to a standstill before
the might of your vast and squirty moaning numbers.
And as God as my Witness, I will start a vibrator repair shop -no, a college; I'll call it "Vibrator Tech University", and involve myself heavily in funding Research and Development. Plans for the first fusion-powered triple-headed "back massager" have already been drafted.

Well obviously the time has come, ladies. The only thing you have to fear is fear itself.

And maybe not having anything to put in the flashlights during the subsequent blackouts.

East Coast Versus West Coast Bloggerz

Predator Press

[LOBO]

No one was more shocked than I when Debbie Dolphin -author of the normally tasteful New England Lighthouse Treasures- issued a vitriolic statement proclaiming all bloggers from the West Coast "Punk Ass Bitches".

-but she's been talkin' trash ever since her record went triple-platinum.

The Exciting Electrical Elevator Endeavor

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Doctor I. M. Nyarlathotep?" I wheeze weakly into the phone.

"LOBO? How did you get this number?"

"I peeked over Nurse Garrison's shoulder when she was filling out my chart."

The doctor sighed. Setting down his golf clubs, he eased back into the driver's seat of the cart. "She told me you have a sinus infection.”

"Then why do I feel like my brains have expanded, ripped through my skull and seeped out while a gnarly-toed bigfoot splashed around on them?"

"Because you have a sinus infection."

"I blame the boy," I says flatly.

"It's entirely possible. You did mention he was sick last week. You could have picked up what he had."

"Well this was most ill-conceived. He is by far the most expendable of us. I mean he can't get a job or drive a car ... and those tiny soft hands are poorly-suited for building even the most woefully small of colossal effigies of myself!"

The sky darkened suddenly, and the doctor looked up to see black clouds moving in. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the warm smell of rain filled the atmosphere.

“What the hell was that?" I says into the phone. "Where are you?”

“It’s a storm coming in,” replied the doctor. “I’m at the 17th hole of the Cancun Open.”

“What’s your handicap?”

"At the moment, you are. Get some Tylenol," suggested the doctor.

"I can't. I'm still stuck in the elevator."

"I thought you were rescued."

"Well, the elevator started working again. But just as I called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol to tell them everything was cool, Lord Likely got on and beat the control panel into slag with his cane.”

“They don’t make these confounded contraptions like they used to,” explained Likely. “And who is this Mandy person?”

“LOBO, I can’t help you from here. Would you please just call the fire department back?”

“They won’t answer,” I says sulkily.

“Tell this medical practitioner to fear not,” says Likely. “I’ve had Botter lay down at the bottom of the shaft and cushion our descent.”

“Will that work?” I ask Likely.

“I don’t know,” says Likely. “That’s why you have to go first. Botter is chocked full of spiky bones and so forth; he will need to be tenderized thoroughly before my Lordliness can attempt such a feat.”

“I’m ready Milord!” cries Botter from far below.

“Doc,” I says into the phone. “What if I jump, and then right before I smack into the ground, I swerve to avoid it?”

Doctor Nyarlathotep rolled his eyes just as the heavy rain began to fall. “It’s worth a try. But wouldn’t you just veer of into the side of the concrete elevator shaft?”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Resigned, I yell down, “Okay Botter, are you ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

To Likely, “And you’re sure he won’t move?”

“Dare he move a muscle, I shall beat him severely about the legs,” says Likely with command.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

After a brief moment, I step into oblivion.

“Oh wait sir!” cries Botter. “I forgot your Tylenol in the car!”

LOBOcop

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"LOBO" says the text.

"What?"

"CAN YOU READ THIS?"

"Well yeah," I respond.

"YOU DIED 50 YEARS AGO IN AN ELEVATOR, AND WE PUT YOUR FROZEN BRAIN IN A ROBOT BODY AS YOU REQUESTED."

"Well, can you please stop typing in these green upper caps?"

"NO. YOU OPTED FOR THE DOS PROTOTYPE."

"But I did get the hovershoes, right?"

"YES."

"And a spell checker?"

"YES. SPELLCHECK COMES STANDARD IN THE FUTURE."

"Can I go to Arbys?"

"ARBYS WAS DESTROYED IN 2019 BECAUSE THEY FORGOT YOUR FRIES AT THE DRIVE THRU. JUST THINK C:\WINDOWS\HISTORY\WWXI\ARBYHOLOCAUST\FLAVOR.EXE"

"Fuck that. This 'Fries' cache file is totally corrupted."

The Cube of Woe

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Man I was unbelievably pissed.

"Sir," squawks the technician over my cellphone. "It would be a lot easier to help you if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" I demand. "I'm going to die in this thing!"

"I highly doubt that sir. You said you already called the fire department, right?"

"Yes I did. I also called the police, the CIA, the FBI, FEMA and Interpol. How dare you unleash this poorly designed and untested -potentially lethal device- upon the unsuspecting public?"

"It's called an elevator, sir."

"It's a goddamned box of death, you quack! You people are the geometric equivalent of Comcast. Where'd you learn engineering, cosmetology school?"

"Sir, I assure you our engineers and technicians are highly qualified. But I'm only a customer service rep for Otis Elevators."

Inspecting the warning panel, I verify this: Otis Elevators is clearly marked right next to 'In Case of Emergency' and the 800 number I dialed.

"Well, let me talk to Otis."

"Excuse me?"

"Otis," I demand coolly. "Put that fucker on."

[muffled laughter]

"Uh, sir, -"

"I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't hear you unless you're Otis!"

"Um," says the guy. "I'm Otis sir."

"Really?" I says.

"Yes sir. Now you said you already called the fire department. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well it's pretty boring in here. And the fire department won't be here for another half an hour."

"You don't have a paperback or something?"

"No," I says glumly. "I even called Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Yeah. It's scratched in the glass here. 'For a good time call Mandy'. She's actually a pretty decent cello player, but it was eating up my minutes."

"Sir, I've been running a satellite diagnostic on the elevator you're in and it's responding just fine. Which floor did you press?"

"Floor?"

"Yes sir. There are buttons you have to press with numbers that correspond with the floor you want to go to."

"No shit?"

"Yes sir. They should be right over the warning plaque."

"I'll be damned. Otis, you're a genius!"

"Thank you sir."

"Wow. They even light up!"

Real Estate

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apartment hunting can be one long series of let-downs after another.

But as the guy that fills in when the Predator Press Copy Editor is sick, I figure I gotta think ferocious and big.

We have an image to keep up after all.

I rather liked this one. Despite the dust and the skeletons, I thought it would make a nice 'fixer-upper'. I'll bet if I went to the store and bought some flathead screwdrivers and then hired some people who knew how to use them, this place would have been top notch in no time.

If it wasn't for the commute, I might have gone for it.

Still, there are other pyramids.

This stately model was really attractive. I mean it's like Aztec or something. What better place to raise your kids, knowing full well that one day they must slay you that they may finally worship themselves instead?

I finally concluded that I didn't want to deal with all that lawn care and landscaping.

I finally settled on this place. I mean sure it's too small and the bathrooms smell funny: in real estate terms, that means "cozy" and "odorific".

Just look at all those kickass videogames.

And hello? A mechanical bull? I've always wanted a mechanical bull!

I can just imagine the tears of joy when LadyTerri finds out I got this cool place with a mechanical bull by merely cashing in our 401k.

She might even make pork chops.