The War Room

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Why he has an enormous map of such an obscure location in Nevada is fairly mind-blowing.  But within moments he retrieves it, and sprawls it over the large table.

"First let me say that if there is even one percent truth in what you are telling me," he barks, "you would be the last soldier on Earth I would trust on an important mission like this.  You are ill-equipped, untrained, inept, and virtually worthless."

"Thanks dad," I reply.

"Have you considered just hiring a mover?"

"That sectional couch came from Ikea.  Only the most brilliant minds on Earth and Koreans can reassemble it."

He ignores my answer, poring over the map with a fingertip.  "Her signal is coming from ... "

... his finger thumps the map.  "Here."

"There's nothing there," I note.

"See?" he replies.  "Worthless.  Coordinate those last two brain cells!  The only reason you think there's nothing there is because the government wants you to think there's nothing there."

"Eh ..."

"There's nothing on Google Maps either, which proves it," he says.  Sighing deeply, he rises, pushing his helmet up an inch with his finger.  "Son, what we have here is a full-blown conspiracy."

"Obviously."

"So what the hell happened to your eyebrows?"

Ultra-Violent Light

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once I decided I needed to rescue Sapphire from an alien race -who might possibly be planning an invasion- because I needed her help moving some furniture, a week ago I visited my dad for the first time in years.

"Are you on drugs, son?"

"No," I says, forgetting the Chantix.

"You would be a lot easier to explain to people if you started doing drugs."

"I'll try."

It gets quiet for a minute, and -after all the driving- I'm basking in the gaps of his enthusiasm to see me. 

My dad is an ex Chicago cop, that, at some point, said "fuck everyone."  He bought 100 acres of property on an obscure, undeveloped mountainside patch of land in Arkansas.  My mental image of him is often rocking on the porch with a six pack and a shotgun, serenely hoping "The Revenuer" shows up.

He has a garden, tomatoes, peas ... despite the austere doublewide trailer, everything seems kind of subdued and unremarkable. 

"How's your mom?" he asks good naturedly.  I can't really clock his eyes through his goggle-like Hubble telescope glasses, but I can see by his smile he is sincere.  "Fourth husband work out?"

"Fifth husband is treating her well."

"Fifth?  What.  Are you two in some kind of competition?"

"Very funny, dad," I says, a bit stunned by the raw observation.  "So what gives?  This place looks so ... normal.  Where is all the artillery?  We've never lived anyplace without at least one anti-aircraft battery within 100 yards."

"I keep most of that in the basement."

The basement of a doublewide trailer.

-Ah shit. Time for the crazy old coot to go into a home.  Well, he had a good run ...

Suddenly the lights dim to a flashing blood red, and an alarm blares.

"Quick!" He cries.  "To the wardrobe!"

***

The "wardrobe," it turns out, is a super-fast elevator to some kind of safe room.

The doublewide has three floors I notice.

As the door opens, dad storms into a very high-tech room with gun racks everywhere, replete with an operating desk and large, widescreen images of various parts of what I presume are his property.  I can't do any better than that, because I was barfing from the wardrobe ride ... I could tell you more about the carpet.

"It's a fucking rabbit," he says, selecting the screen depicting the area that triggered the alarms.  Pressing a button, large, unseen turrets slide up from the ground into the camera view.  "These guys are eating my tomatoes.  Wanna see something cool?"

The monitors lock into glowing, red crosshairs on the rabbit's head.

"Not really."

"But they are eating my tomatoes!"

Dust

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Where are you?"

"I have no idea," I reply.  "About 200 miles outside of Las Vegas."  Glumly, I stare at the signs ROAD CLOSED and PRIVATE PROPERTY.  "And I'm out of road."

Lars Arson pauses.  "Are you going to Vegas?"

I associate Vegas with gambling, live shows, strippers and whorehouses. A colossal amount of effort and energy for which I have no interest.  Rubbing my sore eyes, I am rewarded by some scratchy eyebrow stubble.

"I gotta rescue Sapphire," I says into the speakerphone, ignoring the question.  "Do you know you long it takes for eyebrows to grow back?"

"You decided to rescue Sapphire?  Really?"

"Yeah.  My lease is running out, and I need help moving the sectional couch."

"You are rescuing Sapphire from an invading alien armada because you need help moving furniture?"

"Well you ain't gonna help move a sectional couch."

"True, dat."

Is Chantix Designed to Drive You Insane?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Now to be fair, I had a similar experience with Zyban several years ago.  But thinking this was a different smoking cessation drug altogether, I wasn't expecting the same result: a gradual and subtle loss of sanity.

This time, however, my life was full of other explanations.  Currently a Receiving Lead for a media distributor, I occasionally have to be "spiky."  And I work six ten hour days every week with random days off: a lot of things such as irritability and errors could be explained by general fatigue. 

But sometime around my second week (I was in my fifth as of yesterday), I would experience odd things like insomnia, and, infinitely worse, dreaming my alarm clock went off.  Last Saturday, for instance, I made coffee, showered, and fiddle-fucked with my fantasy baseball team only to realize it was just after midnight.

My work-related error rates increased exponentially.  And with only four days left at this job, I would still like to secure a good reference ... but my judgment was getting really odd and inaccurate. And while I've never been late a single time in three years, I was late twice last week.

I stopped taking Chantix yesterday, but I feel like I owe a lot of apologies.  I did a lot of dumb and mean and inexplicable shit.  The biggest of which was at my soon-to-be ex wife Terri Sellay and her new squeeze, and it was EPIC douchebaggery on my part: imagine the worst, and multiply that by Wes Craven.  What was I thinking?  Until a few days ago, I was holding out some hope that the marriage could somehow be worked out, only to find out she's moved on to a new guy who is superior to me in virtually every way (except the hair.  I have great hair, to the point that it's not fair to compare me with other mortals).

Still, FUCK.  She's happy?

-Well, you can guess the rest.  It was a perfect storm of fuzzy Chantix-laced logic and crippling heartache.   I embarrassed myself, and only after being a total dick realized I have no business trying to stomp on their happiness.

Well shit.  I'm moving and starting a new job, and dropping Chantix like a hot rock.  And I promised to never contact my ex again -a promise very difficult to keep because I am so sorry for the way I behaved.

But I hope someday she randomly googles her name and finds this post, my apology to them both, and my hopes they stay this happy forever.

Because I CAN

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sapphire, naked and fearful, stood before the device -clearly an ancient Sapphire prototype.

"He will not save you," it explains.  "You are one mile under the Earth's surface, deeply entrenched in RDO's plan to invade this dump.  And LOBO spent last night organizing his comic books."

"I know," Sapphire replied in dignified resignation.

"Let's do this."

The Death of Sapphire

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I kind of vaguely remember taking the pills Jenny McCarthy gave me, and feeling calm and, well, productive.  God bless these things.  I recommend them to anybody.  They are all stamped "PLACEBO."

“So what's the deal with you 'recalling' Sapphire,” I ask bluntly. “Are you getting your troops together to finally invade this dump?”

RDO, gleaming teeth over Skype, countered.

”Let's just say having one of our best examples of technological innovation on a stripper pole diminishes our reputation,” he says. "We heard you were hurt in a fire where you work. How are you?”

“I'll be fine when my eyebrows grow back. But the plant is shut down. I have three weeks off until it's repaired.” I sigh. “This is nothing like when you rescued me on that island and I had eaten the four other survivors.”

”You were only stranded for nine hours."

“Those noble souls weren't getting any fatter,” I says. “So what are you going to do with Sapphire?”

”Scrap her for parts, and melt down what's left for an ultra-secret military invasion about to take place, that I'm not at liberty to talk about. At the moment. Right now.”

“Do you think she will let me have her stereo?”

What the Fuck is a "Rampart," and Why are we Watching O'er Them Again?

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"RDO has recalled me," says Sapphire, sadly.

"Oh bullshit," I says. "He wouldn't do that. I love you."

"You fired me out of a spaceship, crashed that spaceship into me, let me nearly burn up in Earth's atmosphere as I fell, destroyed my homeworld, ruined my credit ..."

"Oh come on" I says. "Where I come from, that's called courting. RDO is a short-sighted moron."

"He told me you would say that."

Okay, fine. I'm officially depressed now. And need solid, clinical advice.

"Before you go, do you happen to know Jenny McCarthy's phone number?"

Sapphire smiles.

"I have her on speed dial," she replies.

Red Wedding

Predator Press

[LOBO]

My tires screamed in agony against the parking lot asphalt.

The warehouse of the media distributor I've worked at for two years was on fire.

An alarm blared. I noticed other cars in the parking lot, and this tells me there are co-workers inside. I grabbed my codekey and tried the door against hope. If the electricity is out, I would have to plow my car –my beloved 1990 Plymouth Horizon, fully equipped with optional AM radio and brakes on all tires- through a weak wall thirty feet to my right.

But the codekey fucking worked.

Thick black smoke billowed out, and I ducked under it. I covered my mouth for no reason I can readily think of; the air just seemed too thick to breathe. Lars Arson, Phoebe, and a handful of other vaguely familiar employees were crawling and wheezing to the door I opened. Blind from the smoke, I made a left. Forty feet, right, climb fifteen steps … Thinking quickly, I topple a shelf of thick philosophy books. You know, to distract the fire.

… Holy shit, it's hot.

… right … left. Smoke poured from the nursery as I ran by. Then I passed a small group of nuns as they choked and wheezed prayers, presumably for fire extinguishers.

Can barely breathe. I am so tired.

I arrive at my department, the door conspicuously labeled “Adult Materials,” and then the rescue operation begins.


***

By the time the fire department arrived, I had six pallets worth of “adult materials” stacked in the parking lot.  My clothes, hair and eyebrows burning, I am frantically trying to extinguish them.

“Hey!” a fireman says, jumping from his truck. “Is there anyone in there?”

“Yes!” I scream. “The entire Marilyn Chambers collection, and most of Traci Lords!”

Rejoining the Primordial Ooze

 Predator Press  

[LOBO]

Today was exactly the same as any other day. Shaved, showered, teeth brushed, car warmed up [via remote start], and a full commuter cup of steaming coffee. But it was sixty degrees -the highest temperature since October, I think- when I hit that same crowded intersection at 7:37am.

But there was no one there.

I will start my new job in ten minutes.

A bluebird slipped in, and sang to me from my shoulder. A rainbow seems to follow my car as I close the distance.

See, "Pornographic Materials" in my company means anything containing sexual content. From sex tips to Harlequin romance, half of America's lust will pass between my blistered hands.  And frankly, the kid stuff freaks me out anyway -I won't miss that creepy department a single iota.

Now, I am a sex god.

-Or maybe a sex demigod. Or at least a rumor of sex-goddiness.

But when I made that strangely uncomplicated turn, I saw a pillar of smoke.

The rainbow faded.

Oh shit.

Slippery Plastic

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"You gotta be kidding," I says.  "My first raise in two years, and you offer me this?"

"It's the best we can do," Lars Arson, the Receiving Department Manager insists.  "Most employees got nothing at all."

"I've been working sixty-hour weeks for six months.  And in the third worst winter in Chicago history, I drove through horizontal-blowing subzero blizzards -replete with lightning and thunder- to get here on time," I says, thumping my finger on his desk.  "They got nothing?  Good!  When I drag your ass out onto there and beat the fuck out of you in front of them, I'll be a goddamn hero."

"We also wanted to put you in charge of all the pornographic materials."

The tears well up so fast, I can't stop them.

"You're the best boss I've ever had," I confess.

Future LOBOnian-American Diplomatic Relations in Question

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I remember "coming to" vaguely.

-A balding man, typing with one finger, is asking me questions I am answering on autopilot.  He fills out forms -replete with scan-friendly magnetic bar codes- in handwritten immaculate print as he examines my birth certificate.  On the counter in front of me is my two-inch thick manila folder containing my identity.  A tattered copy of the current Scientific American -which I pretend to understand intensely when I think I will have time to kill in public- is pushed aside in cramped space.

The hands of a plain clock on the wall, the kind I remember staring at endlessly in school, says 8:35.  The bleak sunlight fighting in though the glass doors twenty feet to my right suggest it is morning.

Isn't this Saturday?

"Would you like to be an organ donor?"

I notice a large picture on the wall of the Illinois Governor, obviously fake-smiling with big, crazy teeth.

He looks clearly insane.

Oh no.

"No," I reply.  "Nothing works anymore anyway," I lie suspiciously.

Cumbersome American laws require you to update an address change on your drivers license within 30 days.   LOBOnia -the mobile ten foot sphere that surrounds me at all times- has agreeable trade relations with America, so a scant three years later I deigned to acquiesce at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I am apparently awake about halfway through the process.

I died in my sleep and went to Hell.

But I have apparently planned for this in advance.  I am dressed nice, and remember promising myself to try and smile for the photo.  You know, try and change my Karma?  Still, this is a shitty, shitty way to wake up.

-In the subsequent photo of a man trying to force a sincere smile after going through the DMV,  I am obviously fake-smiling with big, crazy teeth.

I look clearly insane.