The Heart of the Artichoke

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Finally having lost faith in the "Rule of Law", I have chosen to follow the path of the Supervillain.

LadyTerri found this rather laughable.

"Supervillain?" she scoffs. "You passed out when I told you there were artichoke hearts in your salad."

"I'm a vegetarian!"

"Artichokes are vegetables."

"Well, that explains the rather lackluster effect of me gaining the vitality and courage of the artichoke by eating it's heart," I concede.

"If you're a vegetarian, why do you always want me to make pork chops?"

"'That which does not bend breaks,'" I recite wisefully.

"Stop quoting fortune cookies," she demands.

"Look," I insist. "I need a certain number of pork chops a day. I'm hypoglycemic."

"So you're going to be the world's first hypoglycemic quasi-vegetarian Supervillain? You blubbered like a sissy when Bambi's mom got shot."

"Hypoglycemics are prone to counter-regulatory hormones triggered by the falling glucose, and the neuroglycopenic effects produced by the reduced brain sugar!" I protest.

"Stop quoting Wikipedia!"

"I already bought a cape!"



***

I take exception to LaryTerri's doubts. Since childhood I have wanted nothing more than to be a Supervillain.

Dammit, I thought. What does she know? I'm absolutely oozing with, um, Supervillainiousness.

In fact I question the credentials of virtually all other acknowledged Supervillains!

Take Lex Luthor, for instance. How long can you go on as a qualified 'Supervillain' when you've known your arch-rival Superman's greatest weakness for decades and have yet been unable to exploit it? Lex shoulda just used a surface-to-air heat seeking missile to affix Kryptonite to Superman's keyster in flight. Suddenly, Superman can't fly any better'n a garden-variety cinderblock. Plus he ain't the "Man of Steel" anymore. Splatto! End of story.

Getting your ass kicked once a month hardly qualifies.

They shoulda called that guy Lex Loser

Still, I can't expect to go from zero to Supervillain overnight.

I need a reputation.

So I decides to do some midnight skulking.

Unfortunately, midnight is pretty late. I need a good 16 or 17 hours of sleep a night or I can't function at all. Plus, if I came home after midnight LadyTerri would totally kick my ass. But it occurred to me that midnight skulking at around 8:30 would be really sneaky ... no one would expect that.

Man, that's positively evil.

Ominoiusly seizing the lunchbag she packed for me off of the counter, I made my way out to seek my evil destiny.

I started small. Once sufficiently dark, I tried kicking over the neighbor's garden gnomes. But the ground is frozen; all I did was painfully jam my toe. I figured I would have more luck with the trash cans, but their dog heard me and woke 'em up.

"Get the hell away from my trash LOBO!" Jeanie Anderson yelled.

"I'm not LOBO," I replied, eyebrow arched.

Hah! Already spinning my webs of deceit, I'm just crawling with evil now!


***

I wasn't really afraid when Stan Anderson loosed their dog Rommel on me.

That's not why I ran.

I ran because it's 6 degrees, and I'm wearing nothing but black rubber and spandex, a mask and cape.

-I'm freaking freezing.

Full-blown Supervillains seem to get way cooler uniforms. I'm not sure why ... maybe they get discounts for dry cleaning. This would be a good thing, because I keep forgetting I'm wearing the cape and dragging it outside the car door.

And that's how Rommel caught me. My cape, skirting the icy road outside the car door, was the perfect medium for Rommel to stop and drag my 1990 Plymouth Horizon off the road and into a nearby ditch.

Rommel then proceeded to dismember my car piece by piece. It was quite frightening; first it was small items like the door handles, mirrors and windshield wipers. Then those powerful paws appeared in my windshield; he clawed my rumpling hood for purchase while his enormous foam-dripping teeth shredded newly-exposed engine in enraged frustration.

Rommel paused to growl hideously at me through the glass, and I could see cuts and blood on his gums; rearing back as if in a sudden moment of inspiration, he began hurling himself against the windshield repeatedly, and web-like cracks began to race across with every impact.

Now this is why Supervillains have henchmen. I could've used a handful here. I could, for instance, make one get out and push. And then as the dog kills him, I make the next guy get out and push. -And continue on in that fashion until the beast's bloodlust was sated, or until I had been sufficiently pushed free.

Plunging finally through the windshield, I was surprised when Rommel passed right over my femoral artery and voraciously attacked the pork chops and salad LadyTerri packed for my dinner.

My God, I thought. This is the meanest Boston Terrier I've ever seen.

... and now he has eaten the heart of the artichoke too.

Making History

Predator Press

[LOBO]

First my apologies: I did not mean to mislead millions of you readers into thinking I was running for President in that last post.

Please get off of my lawn.

As you may remember -and as was well-documented by Mr Insanity in the vast Predator Press archives- I ran for President in 2006.

I spent $4.1 million on my campaign.

Nobody voted for me.

Not one person.

... These "elections" are totally rigged!

I learned something that awful and momentous day: Why make your own mistakes, when throughout history there have been hundreds of perfectly good dumb people, doing thousands of dumb things?

You should never, for instance, call King Henry the Eighth an impotent limp-dick. Or call George Bush Senior the 'wimp president'. Don't go to Mel Gibson's house to show off your new spiffy new dradle. Don't watch the last episode of Mash for a happy ending [*spoiler alert* Henry dies and Winchester doesn't. Oooooo I hate that snooty Winchester!]. And, above all, never ever ever send your navy after Japan during typhoon season, or whenever Godzilla is pissed off.

It's simple really: "He who forgets his past is doomed to repeat it". We must study stupid people, lest we become one!

But don't get me wrong ... we need smart people too. Remember Isaac Newtron? Forty or fifty years ago, this guy did some crazy math and it really improved our ability to do bank shots playing pool and shoot at each other. When asked about his nerdy and weird math stuff, he says "If I've seen further than others, it is because I've stood on the shoulders of giants".

See? Now that's a thinking man's thinking man. Let the fucking giants do all the work. Just chill out. Giants are pretty mellow overall, as long as they're not cyclopses.

Cyclopses are assholes.

Oh, It's ON. No, Wait ... It's Off Again.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As I stare up at the roof of the ambulance, I suppose there were a lot of reasons not to except a challenge from Style Swags 8 year old yellow-belted daughter.

First of all, from the locker room to the cage in the center of Madison Square Garden was a really long walk. In retrospect, this was part of her strategy I'm sure: by the time she was gluing the broken glass shards and razorwire to her gloves I was already winded.

I don't really remember much after that ... just a lot of fuzzy images of her staring down at me going, "How do you like me now?" [foot to head] "How do you like me now?" [fist to appendix] and "Quit crying, you sissy!" [appendix to face] ... then there was a whole lot of screaming and begging, mercifully followed by confetti and Hannah Montana songs.

I hate sports.

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!”