Why Does Heaven Need Gates? Is It In a Bad Neighborhood?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"So you raised four times as much as you need for the divorce?" Al asks, still browsing Tinder on my phone. "How about this one?"

O please Al. Shut the fuck up. For five minutes.

"How long until the divorce is final?" Albert Dente continued relentlessly.

"Who cares?" I reply. "I decided to let the lovebirds take the hit. I paid off my car instead."

Fly Fighter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Well, neither of us can afford a divorce," I says.  "One of us had to figure out a way to monetize the situation and get it over with."

Rachel frowns.  "You don't think this is a little extreme?"

"All's fair in love and war.  They will thank me later."

"I kinda doubt that."

Soaking Sunset

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It's bad enough I'm stuck in traffic trying to get Lars Arson to the airport.  But it suddenly dawns on me Lars has chosen this moment to give me some professional criticism.

Fuck.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" he asks.

I laugh.  "No."

"You need to stop answering me on reflex."

"What does that mean?"  Lars and I are pretty comfortable as friends, but occasionally I forget he is one of my bosses.

"I asked you if you knew everything."

"Of course not.  But if there's something I need to know, I know how to learn out about it."

Lars pauses.  "But how do you know you need to know something?"

Am I being fired?

I think about these questions carefully.

"A circumstance occurs," I says, stalling words by pretending to be preoccupied by unmoving traffic. "And if I find a problem, I'll seek a solution."

"That's reactive," says Lars.  "Can you be preventative?"

I'm a little stunned.  "I'm not sure."

"I don't think you can."

Trapped.

"I could prevent this conversation by driving into oncoming traffic," I reply, despite the fact that oncoming traffic is stopped, and within arm's reach.

"That's reacting to this conversation," Lars replies.

"So what are you getting at?"

"You're swimming with sharks now," he replies.  "Reactive animals don't fare well against sharks."

I'm getting angry, but I don't really understand the implications of what he is saying.

"I've spent three years being beat to a pulp for virtually nothing-"

"Relax,"  says Lars.  "Nobody knows better how much of a life-imploding experience this has been on you.  But you showed up."

I really can't tell where this conversation is going, but I am weirdly tearing up.  This is just a really, really excruciating way to get fired.

"I've always been pretty prudent about the company," I says.  "Am I going to get a decent reference?"

"You were 'prudent' before your divorce," Lars replies.  "Now I'm not sure.  And I'm retiring soon. I suggested you to replace me."

???

"But I hate flying."

"That," replies Lars, "is a 'reactive' problem." 

Al Dente Inferno

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I woke up annoyed that, for the third day in a row, something went wrong on the coffee pot timer.

The coffee didn't start, and I would have to undergo the arduous task of pressing a button and wait fifteen minutes.  So I jump in the shower sans caffeine, consciously suppressing screaming obscenities into unsympathetic porcelain tiles.

My brain, well-advised against starting a day like this, tried to head me off.

"Relax, man," it said.  "It's not like anyone died."

-And this kinda worked, until it added the afterthought:

"Eventually, everybody dies at the end of this story."

That thought threw me into an utter crippling existential funk.  I started thinking about everyone I knew, friends, loved ones, children, pets ... all finally dying, and worse, kinda taking guesses at what Fate had in store for them.

I am supposed to take Lars Arson to the airport for his flight back to Illinois, but I don't know what time he is supposed to be taken to the airport.  The couch has a wide defensive perimeter of In-N-Out Burger wrappers, video games and controllers, and Corona bottles.

Rachel yawned as she entered the kitchen.  As far as I can tell, she is only wearing an oversized t-shirt.

"Are you working already?"

"I'm trying to," I says, honestly seeking distraction.  "But I can't figure out if I'm supposed to log in under A01, A07, or A10."

"Go warthog," she says.  "Hey, this coffee is terrible."

She didn't know I was at the show last night, because, well, she bombed pretty badly.  I raced home unsure if my presence would only have somehow made things worse.  The decision of who got the guest bedroom was left for my guests to decide (Lars was predictably gracious), and I retired for much-needed sleep probably long before she arrived.  Call it cowardice.

"Look," I says.  "If you are going to stay here for open mike nights, why not just move in?  I have plenty of space, and I could use the help."

"Because the coffee is terrible," she smiles.  "But thank you for letting us stay."

Us?  She picked someone up -and slept with him in my home?

"Cindy came to the show," she says.

-Okay, now I am depressed and have an erection.

Wolves v Sharks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A badly sunburned Lars Arson stumbles into the campsite about 9pm.  His Hawaiian shirt is tattered, and he is wearing only one flip-flop.

He has been missing for seven hours.

Music is playing, glow sticks are flying, the grilled food smell wafts through the air, and a naked woman is working a hula hoop by the bonfire.

"We were playing 'Capture the Flag!'" he gasps between gulps of water.

"Right," I says, pulling a blue rag from my back pocket.  "Here.  You win."

I Got This

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My iPad and iPhone are finally synced.

-And I can't type on either fucking one of them.

I would try and tough this out, but Lars Arson -somehow surprised I dabble in fiction- told me a few days ago that the company won't pay for screenplays, even if they use them.  You can't throw a rock without hitting someone with stacks of screenplays here (and/or being on meth it would seem).

Now this is ironic on a lot of levels.  I conspicuously never mentioned "writing" while I was interviewing.  It was 50% based on strategy, 50% based on the fact that I'm pretty crappy at it frankly, and 50% based on sheer narcissism.  And I am literally devoid of "fame" aspirations: my life is governed by anxiety, and I spend most of it ensuring I will be promptly forgotten as soon as whenever possible.

But specifically not getting $ disconnected me on that topic until now.

Ponder: they still give the writing credit.

That, I noticed, is weirdly in my contract.

-I am already writing "Pirate Alien Coeds versus the Astronaut Ninjas from Earth."

The Pound of Flesh

Predator Press

[LOBO]

At Saturday's company softball game I got to meet a lot of my new associates. It took place in a area on the map called "Community Garden," which is a hippie euphemism for "park." Afterwards, somewhat enthusiastic, I call my mom (amongst others), pacing outside the front of my apartment during the calls so I could simultaneously smoke.

It was during the call to my mom that I tripped on the cobblestones, and cracked my head open.

This created a lot of problems. First, I don't even know where the local hospital is yet. And I'm certainly not calling 911 for something that probably only required a few stitches. Also, I don't really know anyone here except for my new coworkers. Can you imagine? "Hi. This is your new hire, and I need medical assistance ..."

So, as head wounds tend to, I bled a lot. I stood patiently in the shower, waiting for it to stop for almost two hours. Once satisfied that it had stopped, I did exactly what you're supposed to do when you have a possible concussion: I immediately went to sleep.

Keep in mind I don't have my bed -or other comforts- yet. I am sleeping on the floor with sheets and pillows. I woke to a makeshift-bedding bloodbath. Worse, I decided to get back in the shower -now searing from my softball blowtorched sunburn- and shampooing out the blood, only starting the bleeding again.

I don't usually blog in an expository sense, but the strange thing is I seem to be better at numbers. Like I reprogrammed my new phone from memory. I memorized the new companies' account numbers and client phone numbers. Likewise, I pored over the addresses and roads, everything in the immediate vicinity.

Weird.

Chunks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I stare up at the statue, utterly awestruck.

"Why did you think I hired you?" asks my new boss.

It is a statue of me.

"My qualifications?"

"Son, your resume has more lies than a golf course in a hurricane. I hired you because you're a local hero."

The base of the statue reads:


"HE SACRIFICED HIS EYEBROWS FOR US ALL"    

Chinks

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late.  But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week.  The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants.  Today is the real deal.

But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.

I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest.  She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway.  Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me.  With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.

For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint.  Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress.  Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.

"How many keys do you need?" she asks.  "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."

"Just one."

She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed.  "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"

"I'm divorced," I kinda lie.  My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be.  For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen.  But either way, the marriage is moot.

The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.

Is she flirting with me? I thought.

Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.

Eyes are bright, but kinda sad.  Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...

But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.

No visible tattoos.  Great complexion -possibly vegan.  Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...

-Apparently I hate fish.

No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"

So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out.  He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.

So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?

Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.

Bingo.

 

***

The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive.  A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.

I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big.  Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse.   But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.

Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet.  He has wide shoulders and skinny legs.  His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."

"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.

"Sure!" I says.

I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.

I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.

"Here we are," he explains.

I am skeptical.

"What can you film here?" I ask innocently.  "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"

"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"

Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.

“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, theVIIb, and the much ballyhooed IX.2 -as well as numerous models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four poorly-documented bicycles.

Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”

Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”

Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”

Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”

After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.

Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.

-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.

The Truth About Tornados

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Unlike the Discovery Channel, Predator Press doesn’t make you sit through an hour of excruciatingly boring “facts” and “proof”. We’re just going to come right out and say it in the opening paragraph: Tornados Do Not Exist.

There.

We said it.

End of story.

This myth –obviously perpetuated to maintain the billions of dollars America shovels into tornado "warnings," safety equipment and protective gear every year- spins finally to rest right here, right now. Just like Bigfoot and the female orgasm, it's all hype and hippity happity-horsecrap ... and no longer shall America be terrorized by legends designed to scare children to sleep!

“But LOBO,” you say. “While I respect your staggering intellect, I’ve seen pictures of towns destroyed by tornados!”

You call that proof?

What if those people were just really messy?

FEMA: ”My god … This place is a sty. What happened?

Townsfolk: ”Um … tornado!”

FEMA: ”Really? Here is a million dollars!”

Townsfolk: ”Thanks!”

I spent about two hours yesterday on my roof with a pair of binoculars. Know how many tornados I saw? None. And I for one am tired of subsidizing slovenly townfolk with my hard-earned tax dollars.

One has merely to examine the weird recommendations the government provides to unravel the fabled ‘tornado’:

True or False: The safest place to be during a tornado is underground, preferably in a storm cellar.

Correct Answer: False. This is where they want you to be, so those lazy slugs don’t have to go through much trouble burying you!

True or False: If you see a tornado, leave your car and get into a ditch.

Correct Answer: False. What are you stupid? Who is telling you this crap? That's is analogous to that whole 'Stop, Drop, and Roll' scam! Ditches are filthy. And what if some dude wants to steal your car?

A big tornado -say an F9- will rip your shoes through your eye sockets and then beat you to death with them, ditch or no ditch. To avoid injury, a) Get out into a wide-open flat field, b) Quickly ascertain the direction the tornado is spinning, and then c) Run in circles in the same direction as fast as possible to cancel out the cyclonic effect.

True or False: Do not try to outrun a tornado.

Correct Answer: False, false, false. If you see a tornado, get the f—k away as quickly and recklessly as possible. Sabotaging fleeing others by tripping them and running them off the road is useful too, as the tornado will often pause to enjoy devouring their succulent juices -thereby gaining you what might be precious seconds.

If you ask me, America should be a lot less preoccupied with fictitious tooth fairies, boogeymen and funnel clouds, and concerned about more tangible threats like funnel cakes. I mean the unsanitary-seeming conditions of where they are cooked aside, what the hell are those things? Deep-fried sugar globs dipped in syrup and dusted in a redundant additional coating of powdered sugar?

Why don't you just try to get your arteries to process cinderblocks and pointy sticks?

Blech!