Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve spent the last two weeks mulling over retiring Predator Press, and finally figured I’m not going to do so –well, not in any formal sense anyway.
Instead, I think I’m going to return it to how it was a few years ago: experimental writing that is not necessarily humorous.
The drawback of a “humor” blog is that it should be funny, and in my archives I’ve found over a hundred posts –short stories and opinion pieces- that didn’t qualify as such. Beyond that there have been dozens and dozens of posts deleted as too serious, vitriolic or adult for broad appeal. Beyond that are the countless stories I’ve back-burnered for the lack of humor, and this is the biggest travesty of all: I’ve caught myself lately concluding some projects are “not funny enough to pursue” and abandoned them at inception.
Far too notoriously lazy to start a second blog showcasing “serious” writing efforts, the all-too-frequently recurring feeling that I’m stuck in a slapstick mode is becoming extremely pervasive. I suppose in this manner I’ve been letting this insidious little blog increasingly dictate how I write and what I write about, and from a creative standpoint I need that to change.
This isn’t to say Predator Press won’t still be funny upon occasion. Quite the contrary, humor writing and dark satire are in no danger of being unseated as my favorite mediums. But I think “mixing it up” a bit can do little but help improve my storytelling, and thusly enrich the experience overall.
What it does mean, however, is that I don’t know what I’ll be writing about anymore.
And for the first time in months, I’m excited at the prospect.
Friday
The Last Command
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
***
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
***
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
Monday
Chi
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.
-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?
This is why I will never become a Sensei.
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?This is why I will never become a Sensei.
Thursday
California
Predator Press
.jpg)
[LOBO]
As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
.jpg)
[LOBO]As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
Wednesday
DePeste Mode
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Today is the big day.
May 6, 2009 will mark the precise point when Predator Press finally offended every last human on Earth.
This momentous feat would have been accomplished sooner, but 22 year old Ranma Chu [pictured left] turned out to be very tricky to track down; customs officials took issue with “Dental Floss Jokes” as my Reason for Visiting the Country, and the Singaporean authorities became completely intransigent.
-Lousy Communists.
Tuesday
Sailing the Estrogen Seas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
Monday
Saturday
Predator Press Commemorates Global Dig Dug Day
Predator Press
[LOBO and guest Beau Horner]
Oh sure we celebrate firemen and police or whatever. But how often do these so-called "heroes" go toe-to-toe with fire breathing dragons and deadly balloon-like creatures sporting Oakleys?
Most people think that "The Dug's" contribution to Humankind is limited to gardening safety. But let me tell you pal Indiana Jones has nothing on this guy! Read The Nothing Report author Beau Horner's harrowing account of the unearthing of Cleopatra's tomb:
"Cleopatra, better known as 'Patty,' was discovered frozen in time in the infamous 'walk like an Egyptian' pose, underneath several layers of strata....apparently they're color coded now. The only person capable of traveling this far down into the earth was David Duchovny, A.K.A Dig Dug. All of his crew unfortunately was wearing over-sized goggles in the hopes of bringing some laughs to the party."-The fact that Dig Dug heralds employment for David Duchovny alone gives one a brief glimpse into the staggering influence Double-D has in our everyday lives.
But what would a world without this unsung hero actually look like? The Moon -once a lush tropical environment and a candidate for filming "Lost" episodes- is now a barren rock unsuitable even for people from Los Angeles.A tearful Duchovny recalls the events in chilling detail: "It was a war that couldn't be won. In that gravity instead of crushing the monsters the rocks would just bounce off -dammit they would just bounce off! Have you ever heard a Fygar laugh? It's terrifying. Hold me."
So here's to you, David "Dig Dug" Duchovny.
-May you live a long, full life fighting evil down there.
(Clicking the Lego icons immediately left and right will bring you to different amusing Dig Dug YouTube spoofs.)Thursday
Veal Genius
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Moments after the Egyptian mandate to slaughter all pigs within their borders in an effort to stem the outbreak of Swine Flu, The Predator Press Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Weirdoes faxed the following to PETA president Ingrid Newkirk:
-This is gonna be awesome.
Wednesday
Pentagon OKs "Cap 'n Crunchboarding"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
If you thought those things cut the roof of your mouth, imagine them stabbing into your Frontal lobe!
[*shiver*]
Tuesday
How To Prepare For The End
Predator Press [LOBO]
The first problem with the Swine Flu is the name itself. Blech! Who names these things anyway? Would it have been so bad to name it something more palatable like the "Fuzzy-Bunny" flu?
To test this theory, I called my mom and told her I had a bad case of Fuzzy Bunnies. She thought it was wonderful, and requested I save her one.
But because this disease can kill you, the cutesy name theorem is imperfect: "Fuzzy Bunny" entered on your Death Certificate as 'Cause of Death' can have an extremely negative effect on your street cred; once the illness turns lethal, we're going to want to call it something more dangerous sounding.
Currently I’m leaning toward "Thor’s Bitchslap."
-Now that sounds like a pretty cool way to die.
That being said, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is according to numerous highly-scientific simulations I’ve conducted on the Flash game Pandemic II, I figure you all have maybe eight days left before the virulent "wonderful" outbreak of Fuzzy-Bunny devolves fully into the subsequent -and inevitably fatal- onset of Thor’s Bitchslap.
But the good news is with proper precautions there’s still hope for all of you not transmitting this disease to me. The Predator Press Center For Disease Control has issued the following recommendations:
1) Boil yourself at a minimum temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit prior to contact in a one half bleach, one half Lysol and one half holy water solution.
2) Burn all your germ infested property (unless you think I might want it). Use careful discretion here ... I don’t want pictures of your kids and whatever. Please limit this salvage to luxury cars, high-end electronics and precious metals.3) Be tidy. Without remaining hosts to be transmitted to, most pandemics will burn themselves out in a few months: the only thing worse than me wandering around mid-July roasting in a hazmat suit would be doing so knee-deep in a bunch of stinky skeletons. Please have some consideration. Cremation also 100% eliminates the possibility of you returning as zombies.
In conclusion, you all being dead will be a terrible thing for me to endure: I thank you in advance for easing my painful experience through your efforts.
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