Snuff Films and Meth

Predator Press

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“Well,” says the guy. “I certainly don’t see those listed as hobbies very often.”

“Yeah well I wanted my application to stand out.” I reply. “My pornographic Skittle mosaics never seem to get much traction.”

He scans the forms thoroughly. “And your command of profanity is very impressive,” he observes.

“Thank you.”

He sets the documents down. “This was certainly an interesting read.”

“Yeah well I’ve done about 500 of those things so far. The way I see it, at this phase of the interviewing process the only thing you should be worried about is whether or not I’ll fling poo at your clients.”

“Um, there’s no smoking in here.”

I put the cigarette out in his coffee.

“Sorry.”

He drums his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “How exactly did you hear of this position with Planned Parenthood?”

“I’ve got my sources,” I says evasively. I glance around to make sure we’re alone, and lean forward a little. “Hail Satan,” I whisper discretely.

“When can you start?”

“How soon can you stop asking me dumb questions and cut me a check? I could start setting those little sluts straight right away.”

“You have to fill out a W-2.”

“More paperwork?” Exasperated I shake my head. “You know what? I don’t think I want to work here anymore.” I flip my briefcase closed. “Can I just go back to sleep in your lobby?”

Tin Man

Predator Press

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I’m just going to say it outright: I’ve got writer’s block.

I’m not sweating it. It has happened before. I just need to “get typing.”

This post isn’t particularly funny … it’s just the first thing I’ve felt vaguely impelled to write.

A few years ago I was on a team of guys competing in a demolition derby.

-I don’t blame you for the yeah right: I’ll be the first to tell you I’m a tech guy and not a “mech” guy. I can’t change the oil on my car because I think $25 is worth the hassle. And carpentry? Oh holy shit I would sooner burn the place down and collect the insurance.

-But demolition derby was something I always wanted to do I guess. And I want to drive a DD car myself one day: this would be how you start, right? Besides, wouldn’t volunteering for a team provide some great writing fodder?

This "team" needed a volunteer because they had two drivers, and hence two cars. I’m sure you’ve seen stuff one television with guys in cargo shorts and flip flops designing stuff in AutoCAD, but this was an experienced bunch of rednecks with a well-tooled barn, someone on an Acetylene torch 24/7, a seemingly endless supply of rich racist euphamisms, oil-saturated skin and a very specific agenda:

The Derby.

So before I run the risk of making this story more about other people than myself, I’ll regale you with tales of how I hadda get every sliver of windshield glass out of the interior and stuff.

Still, I should back up for a second and explain some things.

You had to, in the regulations of this particular race, “gut” a car and strip it to sheer functional essentials: the gas tank had to be 5 gallons or less. A “protection cage” required installation in each car.

-But there is specific emphasis on glass. Glass must be completely removed and replaced by a ‘tic-tac-toe’ pattern of chains welded to various body components. For lack of better technology, this requires shattering all windows inwardly, and scooping, sweeping, DustBustering –whatever it takes.

Because of this, I was present then the vehicle hoods got “trimmed.” At this phase, they cut holes in the hoods and trunks and doors to chain them closed as per the afore mentioned regulations.

-I got a little oval of steel from both cars, and they sit on my desk -slightly two o’clock fro my line of vision as I write this. I consider them weird luck.

So anyway, I got photographs of the various processes and some great shots of the “crew.” I had notes and details. I had a pretty decent writing project going. And when the deadline for the cars to be inspected for the race loomed, we all –some six vehicles including the truck our two cars were on- simultaneously tore off from the remote farm in a swirling cyclone of flying dust and highly-charged howled obscenities.

-My car, however, the infamous Chick Magnet, broke down at the farm's mailbox and I was stranded for the next 13 hours. The cellphone containing all the precious teambuilding photography was hurled in frustration due to no signal at the fender of the Chick Magnet by a man -who will not be named- in that desolate 20-X-20 mile radius containing only myself.

And those demolition derby pricks won.

Presurrection

Predator Press

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I couldn't pinpoint when it happened, but let's just say the word “retard” has all but vanished from my vocabulary in a decade or so of political correctness.

But every teenager I’ve talked to in the last few months uses the abbreviation ”tard” instead.

Example: ”Dude, that guy is such a 'tard!"

I should be more impressed with their commanding economy over prefixes such as “re”: this subtle modification has masterfully reintroduced the sorely-missed word to our lexicon almost without prejudice.

-But they cancel it out almost entirely with that stubborn habit of adding the suffix “palooza” to everything.

Dear Kellogg’s

Predator Press

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Okay, I’ve had it.

I’ve heard enough Michael Phelps crap.

-The only reason I haven’t weighed in sooner is because I haven’t heard an argument better than "WTF!?!"

Doesn’t Kellogg’s shove a pricey gulletfull of sugar down every single last child in this nation every day? And besides the kids ‘an the “stoners,” who is dumb enough to be eating that diabetic seizure-inducing sugar-coated packing foam in the first place?

A winning Olympic athlete did?

Really?

GET OVER IT

Somnium

Predator Press

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One day –for whatever reason- the last letter of this blog will be typed.

Over time, many of the numerous blogs that it links to will fail as well. And here -unmonitored- those fossilized links will inevitably break one by one.

And having ground to a standstill, required upgrades will be missed and new guidelines will be unheeded: long forgotten bills and subscriptions will go unpaid, and ultimately Predator Press will stutter on in a distorted and sleepily hobbled feed, winding out tiredly into an uncaring oblivion.

-Perhaps before then, one of the following people (who all have something in common) will “google” themselves and realize that I have missed them terribly:


Troi Orias
Grant Uyeshiro
Aaron Leong
Kimo Albarado
Kevin and Lynnette Almeida
Ken Scroggins
Nelson Aoyama


carpenoctum-at-hotmail.com

The Return of the Fellowship of the Ring-Wearing Lord of the Two Towers' King

Predator Press

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The taxi driver -clearly a Visigoth of the proud Tervingi division- smiled widely into the rearview mirror.

“Buenos dias!” he says enthusiastically.

“Look buddy,” I says watching behind to see if anyone is following us. “I don’t speak Visigoth. And this is Los Angeles dammit. If you’re going to do business here, you’re gonna have to pick up the local language pronto.”

“English,” he says. “I know some. Where you need to go?”

“Into history, my friend. I want you to take me to see The Gooch.”

He screeches to such an abrupt halt, my face smashes into the front seat cushion.

“Jesus Christ!” I complain.

“Get out!” he demands. “I will not take another man to that evil place.”

I’m getting tired of repeating myself. “Look. I need to slay The Gooch so I can get a book deal.”

“Well I have a book deal,” the driver points out.

“You do not,” I reply furiously.

“I do so,” he says, showing me the cover of a paperback on his dashboard.

His picture is on it.

“Romantic comedy,” he explains. “It was on the bestseller list for thirteen weeks.”

“Bragger.”

“But I will not take you to The Gooch.” He turns around to face me, throwing his elbow behind his seat. “Many have gone, and few return. And the few that do return only tear out their own eyes screaming in the deepest sanitariums on Earth. Besides it’s right there.”

He points to a dark castle enshrouded in fierce clouds at the top of a jagged mountain at the end of the block.

I whistle.

“That’ll be twelve dollars,” he says.

“You only took me eight feet!”

Green

Predator Press

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“You’re kidding,” I says.

“Nope,” says the Butterbean kid. “All dead.”

“The Gooch killed all 2457 Gary Coleman clones?”

“It’s right here on CNN.” He flips through some screens. “Oh man some of these pictures are pretty horrifying.”

“It’s settled then,” I says. “The Gooch must die.”

“Is this another weird attempt at getting a book deal?”

“It’s the natural order!” I insist. “You have a great blog, you kill The Gooch, pow, book deal. That’ll teach that Starcasm to stop stealing my ideas.”

Butterbean shrugs. “I have a book deal.”

“You’re a liar,” I says.

“Nope,” the Butterbean kid says. “I got a C minus for my interviews of you, but Random House heard about ‘em somehow and offered me $100,000 for The Unofficial Biography of LOBO.”

“Did you get exclusive rights in case there’s a motion picture?”

“Check.”

“You bastard!”

“Terri’s home,” he points to the window.

“Look,” I says. “There’s no need to upset Terri with the news that I’m going to attempt to kill The Gooch.”

“Mum’s the word,” says Butterbean.

“And I know,” I continue, “that we haven’t known each other that long. But in this small span of time I feel that we've grown to be pretty close friends.”

Terri is working the front door lock with her keys.

“This is why I’ve decided I want you to have these,” I say ceremoniously.

“Wow!” says Butterbean. “The protective goggles you wear to eat M&Ms?”

“Take good care of ‘em kid,” I says. “There’s a good chance I won’t be needing them anymore.”

“But don’t you want to give these to your own kids?”

“Nah. I want ‘em to go to somebody I actually like.”

Terri throws open the front door.

“Honey,” she cries breathlessly, tossing her keys on the table. “I have the best news. I got a book deal!”

The Clone Wars

Predator Press

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Soak

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Vitalized by our harrowing near-death experience meeting James Carville, the Butterbean kid and I ate ice cream and discussed the possible cosmic ramifications.

“At least this isn’t some weird yogurt,” he says.

My eyebrows furrow as I study the globe. “I still can’t find where he claims he was born.”

“It’s Fort Benning, Georgia,” Butterbean offers. “It would be right over Florida.”

“Well that’s exactly where my thumb is,” I protest. “I’m not buying it.”

Lapping up the last of Fudgie the Whale, we consider this in relative silence.

Butterbean eventually pipes up, rubbing a paper towel against the sticky shirt covering his flabbing pectorals. “So what if aliens have taken over our minds and have made us join the democratic party?” He sits at his parfait. “Now all the Gary Coleman clones are ours.”

Warily, I climb down from the table. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," says Butterbean. "Thanks to Mister Drummond and his daughters, your ankles are now completely safe from Sickle Cell Anemia."

“A sister,” I says mystically. “NBC was wise to hide her from me.”

Predator Press Interviews: James Carville

Predator Press

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“Federation or Borg?” the Butterbean kid demands. He’s standing on a chair, looking through the peephole of my front door.

“Excuse me?” asks a muffled voice from outside.

Sensing the kid’s alarm, I approach. “Who is it?”

“You gotta see this,” he replies, face pressed against the door. “It’s either Jean-Luc Pickard or Locutus.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What the hell is he selling?”

The kid steps down and moves the chair. “I don’t know yet.”

I open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Hello,” says the well-dressed man. “My name is James Carville.”

Butterbean and I stare.

“The lead strategist for the Clinton presidential campaign?” he adds helpfully.

I scowl. “You’ve got the wrong house. There’s nobody here named ‘Clinton.’ And do you have any idea what time it is?”

He looks at his watch. “10:30 in the morning?”

“I better get some free ice cream for dragging me out of bed like this,” I says.

He smiles. “I believe you’re confusing me with Carvel ice cream. I’m just visiting random registered democrats to get their feelings on the 18 billion in bailout money earmarked for executive bonuses.”

“No Fudgie the Whale, no dice,” I insist. “Besides, you should probably know I’m a registered republican and libertarian too. I like being on the winning team.”

Butterbean whistles. “You can screw everything up and get 18 billion in bonuses?” He looks at me. “You’re in the wrong business.”

“Shut up,” I says.

“Look,” says Carville. “We’re on the precipice of major change. This year saw America elect it’s first African-American president, and-“

“We have a black president?” I says. “Is it Tupoc?”

There’s and uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Carville says finally.

“Can you teach me the Vulcan Nerve Pinch?” asks Butterbean.

“You’re thinking of Leonard Nimoy,” replies Carville.

“Don’t confuse this guy with Leonard Nimoy,” I says to Butterbean. “Leonard Nimoy is a class act.” I eye Carville. “Leonard Nimoy would’ve brought us ice cream.”

“Uh-huh,” Butterbean agrees. “Plus he would’ve stayed out of those tanning beds.”

“Seriously!” I says. “Carville you look fifty years older since The Lord of the Rings. You know there’s spray-on stuff now that doesn’t turn your skin into melted leather.”

“Will you shoot an arrow off of my head?” asks Butterbean.

“No I will not shoot an arrow off of your head,” replies Carville. “You’re thinking of Orlando Bloom.”

“Yeah dumbass,” I says to Butterbean. “This is the guy that burned the picture of the Pope.”

“That’s Sinead O'Connor,” corrects Carville.

“Pulp Fiction?” I offer.

“Bruce Willis,” says Carville.

"The Transporter?" asks Butterbean.

"Grant Latham," replies Carville.

"Triple 'X'?" I venture.

"That's Vin Diesel," says Carville. “Are you guys just going to bark out a bunch of random bald celebrities now in an effort to figure out who I am rather than discussing government policy?”

“Probably," I says. "Why?"

LOBOSCOPES

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You are the only sane one left. All the other signs of the Zodiac have gone crazy and are out to get you.

It's kill or be killed, you poor bastard.



It is a tumor.

-I don't know how you did it, but you got testicular, prostate, ovarian and breast.

On the bright side, those things incubating on your itchy genitalia won't be succesfully diagnosed until after the autopsy.



You are shrewd and ruthless: upon reading these horoscopes, you immediately buy life insurance on every Cancerian you know.

To enjoy your bountiful destiny, it is a Cosmic imperative you eye your insurance broker strangely ... He's a Taurus. They like that.

It makes them respect you more.

Your lucky number today is "-1."



You are intelligent, amiable, charming, and good looking.

Nobody can stand you.



You are a complete loser, and the only person in the world that doesn't know it. Your own mother has to refrain from signing it on your birthday cards. Even your pets know it; your dog hides on walks when other dogs are around, and your goldfish are trying to spell it in the aquarium gravel.

Don't feel too bad, however; you could have been a Cancer ...



If you were never born, world hunger, famine and poverty would have abruptly ceased long ago; peace and harmony would've been the hallmark of all humankind.

Other than that, your outlook is great.



Still waters run deep.

Unfortunately, you are about as 'deep' as the Spice Girls.

Geminis should avoid careers that involve operating heavy machinery, explosives, basic math, spelling, and speaking out loud.



There's nothing wrong with your sexual appetites a little "Liquid G" can't handle.

Otherwise, just conduct your sermons as normal.



You will meet a tall, dark stranger. Carry a can of mace, and you might be able to get away eventually. After prosthetics and several years of rehab, psychiatry, and heavy medication you might even be released to the family on weekends.

-But don't count on it.



You Leo, are the lion of the Zodiac. This means you are as fat, lazy and worthless as the ones in the wild kingdom. While you sleep all day, your concubines run around hunting to feed you during the brief debacle of your slothful consciousness.

Well done!



Your wonderful and generous nature is rewarded rather ironically by Fate when you 'Realize' you were killed by one of Colbie Caillat's tour busses.



You Pisces, are the fish of the Zodiac: your only claim to history and fame will be an indirect and unfortunate association with the invention of tartar sauce.

Fish are ultimately animals that swim in their own urine and get hooked, beheaded, flayed, gutted, and deep-fried by the billions everyday. That having been said, do you really want to know your future?

As if your horoscope will say "You will wake up tomorrow a Scorpio" ... ?

Duh!!