[LOBO]
Saturday
Friday
Sugar Plum
Predator Press
[LOBO]
eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.
“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”
And Jeremy was fine with that.
-He didn’t much like talking anyway.
One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.
Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.
“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.
Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.
The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.
Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Warm.
Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.
“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”
“She quit?”
“Claimed she was insulted.”
Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”
“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.
The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”
Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.
“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.
“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.
“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.
Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.
“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”
Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”
Both cringed in silence.
Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.
The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.
“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.
“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”
In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.
“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”
[LOBO]
eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”
And Jeremy was fine with that.
-He didn’t much like talking anyway.
One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.
Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.
“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.
Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.
The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.
Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Warm.
Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.
“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”
“She quit?”
“Claimed she was insulted.”
Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”
“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.
The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”
Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.
“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.
“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.
“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.
Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.
“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”
Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”
Both cringed in silence.
Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.
The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.
“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.
“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”
In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.
“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”
Wednesday
I Thin I Boke my Node
Predator Press
[LOBO]
So I was thinking about the Facebook [FB] rollercoaster stock ride.
See, FB doesn’t yet have a platform designed for profit. But what interests me in stock in companies such as FB, Twitter, Apple and Google is much more long range: all these companies are vanguard explorers of the violent and barbaric technological fringe –something that I have been arguing since 1984 that would literally be the next step in Human Evolution.
Humankind, now able to communicate globally and instantaneously, has achieved virtual telepathy.
And whether you agree with me or not, at least admit these technologies aren’t going away anytime soon.
Further, these companies –assuming proper management- have patents. Thus, if my “theory” holds true, the advanced R&D in these companies can license these properties for commensurate fees. In short, you’re not just buying a website. You are buying technologies.
With a memo pad in one hand and a pencil in the other, I went to where any sane person does to mull important decisions, the bathroom, and decided to weigh the prospect. Hands full, however, I kicked the half-closed bathroom door open wide … completely forgetting my sneakers, virtually hugging bottom at the other side.
-POW!!!
It didn’t bleed much at the time. Stopped in an hour or so. But in retrospect, I think everything swelled up and blocked it. Skip ahead to my morning shower nine hours later: no black eyes, but In the humidity the swelling presumably contracted. The urge to involuntarily blow my nose produced lightning-like blinding pain as I violently ripped the clotting and splashed twin black octopi -scabs and dried blood from both nostrils- audibly on the tub floor.
And then the real bleeding began.
Tuesday
Meet FrankensteinBot/pwn.exe.vi.2
 |
| FrankensteinBot/pwn.exe.vi.2 is actually "Classified." But you get the idea. |
[LOBO]
With all due respect to the mighty and noble Mayan, this is the lousiest Apocalypse I’ve ever seen.
-What if there is going to be a 2013?
You mean I'll still be on this shithole dump planet spinning into an endless, shithole dump infinite void? With this credit rating? And YOU assholes?
I knew it. I should never have given that cult all my money and worldly possessions. They were all like "Yeah, were gettin on the Mother Ship today!" And I was like "Cool!"
But they ditched me at Shoe Carnival.
They went to the Mother Ship without me.
Bastards.
Thursday
Borne Leader
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I regret to inform you," sighs Barbarossa, "That you have been nominated as Union Steward."
My attention snaps from the computer screen. "What?"
"The People like your plan to bring back sexual harassment. Restoring the two martini lunch would be cool too." He scratches his chin. "Even piss testing us is a violation of the HIPPA law."
My eyebrows furrow. "I can't be a corporate lickspittle and a Union Steward. And have you looked around? SFIC is a soiree of Asperger's Disease and, well, ugly. You want drugs too? This place would be a seething cesspool of literally toxic DNA."
"We want the American workplace to be restored back to the glory days of 1960."
"Barbarossa, what year were you born?"
"1961," he replies.
"I rest my case."
[LOBO]
"I regret to inform you," sighs Barbarossa, "That you have been nominated as Union Steward."
My attention snaps from the computer screen. "What?"
"The People like your plan to bring back sexual harassment. Restoring the two martini lunch would be cool too." He scratches his chin. "Even piss testing us is a violation of the HIPPA law."
My eyebrows furrow. "I can't be a corporate lickspittle and a Union Steward. And have you looked around? SFIC is a soiree of Asperger's Disease and, well, ugly. You want drugs too? This place would be a seething cesspool of literally toxic DNA."
"We want the American workplace to be restored back to the glory days of 1960."
"Barbarossa, what year were you born?"
"1961," he replies.
"I rest my case."
Tuesday
Sexual Harassment at the Workplace
Predator Press [LOBO]
“Thank you all for coming,” booms the suited guy at the podium in surround sound. “To the Annual Seminar on Sexual Harassment at the Workplace.”
I stand. “It’s about damn time!”
-And it was as if I had somehow removed all oxygen from the auditorium a half-second too early: the thirty-seven rows of people ahead all stared backwards at me, jaws agape. A woman six rows behind me audibly gasped and fainted.
The suited guy at the podium points at me sympathetically. “Have you been a victim of sexual harassment sir?” he booms in surround sound.
“Not yet,” I yell back. “And I'm getting depressed.”
Sunday
Saturday
Wednesday
Space Rape
Predator Press
[LOBO]
This morning I flipped a cardboard box into the "Recycling" dumpster.
And in the brief span of time I saw triangular sun-illuminated dumpster contents, I saw like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining. And then the lid, as designed, shut by virtue of gravity.
"What the fuck?" I thought. "Jesus, that just looked like nine million twitching bees, all vertically lined up against the dumpster lining." Popping the dumpster back open, I thought "What the hell did I really see?"
It was at that exact moment that nine million pissed off bees attacked me.
But as you longtime Predator Press readers know, I am an honorary white-belt Master of the long-lost martial art form of Peking Duck: four or five bees stung my shirt, but I deftly locked myself in the trunk of my '74 Toyota Camry without a single sting to my actual flesh.
Still, I think all my neighbors are dead by now.
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