Ask LOBO: Bad Gamma Jamma

LOBO -Predator Press

About halfway into "Thor: Ragnarok," I realized I was crushing on -not Cate Blanchett- but Hela. Having had a similar experience with the "Suicide Squad" villain Enchantress, it invited some mind-blowing introspection.

[I'm not attracted to goth. And Cara Delevingne, admittedly, is not exactly in my age demographic. But Suicide Squad's "Enchantress" demon(?), is like probably older than dirt anyway.]

My first thought is always now this is a woman that gets shit done. No more hassle by airport security for yours truly aka "God's football," lest ye be smoten. And standing in line too long at a grocery store? Pow! Free Slurpees for everyone!

And then I went all swoony.

-I "get" Hela.

Sure there would be downsides to dating her. TV dinners for all Eternity. And I'll bet the damned shower drain hair filter alone would be a nightmare. Toenail clippings that could shoot through concrete walls would probably change my insurance rates significantly. But can you imagine the sex? She is effectively a timeless goddess, and I am pretty open to new things. I'll just double down on the calcium so my pelvis holds up as long as possible.

This says a lot about me and past relationships. I'm not capable of that kind of aggression, so maybe it is a yin and yang thing I never noticed in myself before. An excuse for terrible evil for which I can participate, yet be divorced from on a karmic level. Maybe that is the whole new scale of evil.

I would protect her.

Area 52

[LOBO]-Predator Press

With Twitter now a smouldering wasteland, I figure I'm safer writing on something nobody reads.

"So you pissed off a bunch of nerds," says Barbarossa. "What is the big deal?"

"Because a nerd," I explain, peering through blinds pushed apart with a finger, "will put on a costume and kick your ass."

My day was spent in fairly meta thought. I guess I didn't need to explain why I canceled my subscription? But my job is to troubleshoot problems. I can't do my job without input, and I welcome it. Am I the one "out of step?" A mental analog comparison has me sending all our current accounts out to wreck up one that just left.

"Can I at least turn on the TV?" he asked.

"No lights," I reply. "Some Daredevil cosplayer might me taking a sniper bead on me even as we speak."

"Daredevil is blind," Barbarossa replies.  "He tracks stuff down by, like, sound and stuff."

"Okay fine," I concede.  "I suppose we can watch TV on mute."

I just read the news ticker for maybe thirty seconds.  The President of the United States is arguing with the National Football league.

"This isn't helping," I says.

"Did you know Hugh Hefner died?"

 "This is really not helping."

Suddenly the phone rang.

Oh shit they found me.

***

"Johnny Listen" isn't this kids real name.  His real name is Johnny something, but I found myself saying "Johnny, listen!" so often it stuck.

"Hey man," Johnny Listen says over the speakerphone.  "Can I have next week off?  I want to go on a fishing trip to Canada."

"You just started this job last week, and you want to .... ?"  I am listening to myself talk, sort of in disbelief.  Johnny Listen has the job I started with, and I remember being so infinitely grateful for it.  This kid, in theory, is following in my footsteps.

"You are going to have to call H.R." I says.  "I don't know what to tell you."

"Dude, will I be fired?"

"If you disappear for a week?" I says.  "Probably.  This is a job.  J-O-B.  And job you just started a few days ago."

"My girlfriend will break up with me if I get fired."

"Well," I sigh exasperated, "You should maybe put some thought into this."

"She thinks I am a loser.  I got fired from McDonalds because I kept messing up the orders."

Trollar Opposite (GoFuckYourself.exe)

LOBO -Predator Press

I don't have a lot of time for social media anymore, but WOW my Twitter account isn't factoring that in. It can be an eyeful over morning coffee.

-And I am not "naming names" out of spite. Quite the contrary. Both sites that blew me up as an internet troll are pretty entertaining.

A year ago, an author at Screenrant.com suggested using D.C. superhero characters in a musical. The author wrote an excellent article article spelling out how the acting cast -by virtue of theatrical background- was perfectly capable of pulling this off. The author was exactly correct, and I think the musical crossovers have since already happened.

The problem is I personally dislike musicals. I made a sarcastic remark. When I got back to the internet (perhaps two days later), my Twitter done blowed up because I was a sexist? I didn't even know the author was female. I just don't like musicals, and now I remain permanently banned on the message boards.

But the @StarWarsMinute one really hurt. Pete and Alex run a REALLY good show, and it has recently blown up in popularity. They are super fan-friendly too. There is zero reason for me not to love the show. Except. Commercials. Not the number of commercials, but where they were placing them. I felt commercials in the middle of the show messed up the cadence -it is only 15 minutes long for God's sake. Finally frustrated, I DM-ed them that I was unsubscribing - and they retweeted my DM(!), adding, "Sorry we like to get paid." And again, my Twitter blowed up.

In both cases, I feel like I was "reverse trolled." Unnecessary drama (trauma) was brought in for clickbait.

This line of thinking -or lack thereof- is pretty goddamned alarming.

Turing

LOBO -Predator Press

When The Boss flies in thirty people from all over the world, you damn well better pretend to take notes.

Most people pretend to do so on laptops and cellphones, but I went "old school" -a pencil and a notebook.

I doodled the bat symbol.

"Blah blah opportunity blah blah markets blah blah ..."

Now I have a nice catwoman silhouette in the foreground ...

"Blah blah customers blah blah blah pizazz ..."

"Excuse me sir," I raise my pencil. "Did you just say 'pizazz'?"

He scowled at the interruption.

"I don't think anyone has invoked the word 'pizazz' in thirty years," I explain. "I was wholly unprepared for this word to be rushed back into the lexicon."

"Do you have a question?"

"Yes, in fact I do. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over. But it can't. Not with out your help. But you're not helping ..."

Predator Press demands "Fantasy Island" horror reboot

LOBO -Predator Press

"Smiles, everyone, smiles," gestures Ricardo Montalban.

"Welcome to Fantasy Island" he says to me as I disembark the tiny plane.

-And then I somehow spend the entire week on the tarmac, flirting with the 'smiling' women.

Does anyone know Clive Barker's phone number?

Predator Press watches Prometheus

LOBO -Predator Press

Like The Phantom Menace, Prometheus got an almost immediate second viewing due to 1) trying to explain the plot so someone, and 2) hearing myself trying to do so.

Now I'm not a horror fan.  Prometheus required some extra discipline, because I spent both viewings fucking terrified.  Between the shrieking and frequent underpants changing, I'm surprised I caught as much of the plot as I did the first time.  In retrospect, watching this movie by myself was a bad idea.

Critics can bang up on it, but Prometheus shares the same rarified air as the original Alien and John Carpenter's The Thing: they are all excellent examples of why you don't want me on a Mars mission, on any job in an area classified as 'uncharted,' or making a fast food run with a really, really complicated order.

At the first sign of even a nosebleed, I would just start blowtorching every last one of you assholes.  Aliens, marines, civilians, cats ...

... especially cats.

Jerxes

LOBO -Predator Press

"Mitch?"

"Aspergers."

"Carol?"

"Way Aspergers."

"Calvin?"

I think for a second.

"Aspergers," I conclude.

Gina pulls away her glasses in frustration. "So you've diagnosed everyone on my Christmas list with Aspergers?"

"Christmas? I thought you were making a roundup list for the C.D.C."

Heart of Gold Part II

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

"Listen," says the cop, uncuffing me.  "We are going to throw this ... thing ... into the Hadron Collider."

"Oh really," I says, rubbing my wrists.  "We're going to do exactly what I planned to do before you so rudely arrested me?"

"We don't have time to send this to a committee," he barks.  "But the backup I called will be here any second.  This scourge on humanity must be stopped."

"Well, duh!" I says, choosing my words carefully.  But as he scurries around the room looking for anything useful, I begin to reconsider.  This guy is an all-business professional.  And he's big, barrel chested, and "cuts a good jib." Natural heroic looks.  He will be on the cover of magazines.

-Real or not, America needs heroes like this.

"Open that hatch on the floor," he commands, yanking at some cables.

"This hatch is clearly labelled 'DO NOT OPEN HATCH.'" I point out.

"That is an access point to the 27 kilometer ring they race the particles in."

"Kilometers?" I says, swinging the hatch wide.  "This goes to Europe-?"

But the second my eyes fall on the inside of the ring, I am lost in its violent beauty.  Glowing reds, yellows, greens and blues, flying by at thousands of miles per hour.  Utterly dazzled, I find myself wanting to fall to my knees and weep.

This must be what God sees.

Suddenly, the cop smacks me on the back.

"-and that's the plan," he continues, furiously tying the cable around his waist.  "Now remember.  One tug means 'Throw me the backpack.'  Two tugs mean 'Pull me back, fast.'  And if I don't make it," he hesitates, "tell my wife and kids I love them.  I did this to protect them."

"What is your name?" I yell over the maelstrom.

"Officer Clint McMannanaugh!" he salutes.

He dove in.  And immediately, the coiled cable next to me started to swirl away.

The end of the cable disappeared into the hatch with a violent crack against the hatch edge.

"Hey!" I yell into the hatch.  "Shouldn't you have tied this to something?"

Nothing.

I stick my head in to listen closer, and see a small metal object whip by my head from behind.

"Officer McMannanaugh!" I yell.  "You've lost your badge!"

A shoe.  And then a human ear.

"I think you should tug the cable twice!"

The cable flew by.  His revolver clanged behind, firing randomly.

"God bless you Officer Clint McMannanaugh," I mutter.  Opening the backpack, I look at the vile contents, the moist evil pulsing.  "But enough blood has been spilled over Europe."

At that point, I could have just Fed-Exed the whole pulsing squishy mass of weirdness to someone else.  But who?  I thought.  I don't hate anyone else enough!

The sirens approached.

All I can do is put this fruitcake someplace where no other human will ever dare touch it.

Tires squealed in pain against concrete.

-I'll put it under another fruitcake.

Click here for Heart of Gold Part I

Heart of Gold

LOBO -Predator Press

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

His moves are so well-practiced, the handcuffs are on me before I know it.

Blase yet clear, the cop explains. "You are under arrest for criminal trespassing."

"I object!" I says.

He rolls his eyes with the enthusiasm of a man who can tear his ACL rolling his eyes. "May I ask you why you were trying to break into the CERN Hadron Collider?"

"This time?"

"Yes sir."

"It came back," I says.

"Excuse me?"

"It came back!" I says. "Look in my shirt pocket."

He procures the paper, and unfolds it.

"This is a signed receipt of delivery from Fed-Ex."

"It snuck in.  I was acually expecting por -eh- art movies.  But it can't come in uninvited," I explain. "It's like a vampire."

"What can't come in?" he asks.

I nod my head to my backpack. "I already had it in 2006."

The cop's trepidation is palpable, and he opens it slowly. "Is it a head?"

"Worse."

Sweat drips from his forehead. "Is it a bomb?"

"You wish."

"Oh shit," the cop reals, shutting the backpack. "You got the fruitcake."

"Twice!" I point out.

He staggers a little, but regains composure like a pro. "Look. You signed for it. I get that it isn't fair you got it twice, ..." He gags for a second. "But it's yours now."

"Or is it?" I says. "If you arrest me, you have to take it as evidence. That makes it yours."

"That's a lie!" he sobs, tears welling.

"I was trying to destroy it by throwing it into the CERN Hadron Collider and banishing it to a parallel universe once and for all."

"Or cause a space-time disruption that wipes out all of Existence?"

I shrug.

"Either way."

Click here for Heart of Gold Part II

Xanadu

LOBO -Predator Press

While ruling out a torn cruciate ligament via MRI, Doctor Gudenstont found a bullet my ankle.  Getting it non-surgically reduced requires a series of lethal injections, so I'll be home for a few weeks.

Of the hundreds of screeners I haven't watched, I picked "Terminator:Genysis." Why I could not tell you.  But an hour in, I found myself seething in a blind rage.  I wanted to burn down the theater.  The fact I couldn't because I live here only redoubled my frustration.  After a ceremony to appease various gods, now I have to watch this steaming crap at a friends house, and then burn that place down.

Gina pulled up as I was returning the can of gasoline to the shed.

"If the bad terminators only need to kill Reece or Sarah Connor," I bark, "why do they spend the whole damn movie fighting with Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"What? "asks Gina, still getting out of the car.  "Hey.  Is that gasoline?"

"Give me a hand with it," I says, wobbling clumsily on my cane.  "I have a bullet in my leg."

"You have a cyst in your ankle," she corrects.

"Everyone knows 'cyst' is a medical euphemism for 'bullet.'" I argue.  "They do that for insurance reasons."

"The oil change guy wanted to charge me forty dollars for windshield wipers," she says.  "Can you imagine?  This car isn't even a year old."

"Well ..."

"What?"

Having a bullet in your leg makes it hard to run serpentine.  I hesitate.  "I've been meaning to mention that.  Your windshield wipers are an eyesore.  The neighbors are talking.  This can't go on."

"That's ridiculous," she says.

"Is it?" I says.  "Every day you pull up with those droll windshield wipers, I have to go into damage control.  It's fine that you are making some hippie statement.  But don't think I don't suffer the consequences."

For some reason, I'm not allowed to have a shed key anymore.

Sin Limite

LOBO -Predator Press

At this point in my life (and my fantasy football season), I figure I need to make peace with God.

But which one?

On the face, the seventy two virgin thing sounds pretty cool right?  But are they legal and consenting? Heck ... are they even female?  And do the virgins disappear once you *ahem*, so I have to space them out? I live with two women now, and I can tell you shelf space for my shampoo is already precious real estate; there is a lot of zit cream and kissing potions.

Is there a second tier?

I would settle for 36 voracious cougars.

Hard "R"

LOBO -Predator Press

I'm not here to take a political stance.  When the election rolled around, it occurred to me I couldn't help pick out the living room furniture; I really have no business picking out your leaders.  But while perhaps less surprised at the outcome than most, a morbid fascination grew.  For better or worse, we are watching history unfold.

Domestically, I've never felt we are as far along race-wise as we think.  My company, around 300 people, is roughly 30% white, 20% Latino, 25% African American, et cetera.  Then we have subsets of gender, language, religion, politics, and interests.  They do tend to cluster in their own ethnicities, which suggests to me we are all experiencing the "culture" differently, and people sharing similar histories have a gravitational pull socially.  These ever-diminishing groups refine and sharpen their borders the deeper we get.  But I also think my company, were it 100% white male, would break down into similar cliques --so I have a problem with the message "we can all get along just fine ... if we all just think like white males."  It feels like tribal dick-wagging.

And speaking of tribal dick-wagging, the international policies are likely to shift dramatically as well.  That is what actually prompted this post.  You are reading a guy on his second cup of coffee, who, in order to go to work, must convince himself that a piano won't fall on him when he steps outside.  I must navigate a world full of bear attacks, dolphin rapes, bath salts, dolphins raping bears on bath salts, plagues, plaques, floods, locusts, and irresponsible uninsured piano movers -all under the all-seeing eye of Kelly Ripa- just to get to the punch clock.  But what about those guys fighting ISIS?  Somewhere, in the middle of a hellish desert battle (remember this isn’t attacking a dessert -you can’t just throw sprinkles on your tank and hope for the best. ISIS would hit you broadside with a strawberry in a second), our soldiers just got new bosses.  New plans.  If a single poorly-chosen manager can decimate a TGIF, what can this mean?

I, for one, won't stand for our selfless protectors overseas getting cold mozzarella sticks and soggy potato skins.

Eastworld

LOBO -Predator Press

"Are you guys tech support?"

Even through the rubber jumpsuit, the guy in charge visibly squirmed.  "Most customers don't contact us directly, as it ruins their immersion experience in the park."

Gesturing to Sapphire's lifeless body, I says "Well, what about that?"

"What happened?" he asked, fogging his plastic facemask.

"I told her her blue eyes were so stunning, they hit me with the cosmic force of suddenly being released from a sewage plant."  I shrug, frustrated.  "Why can't these things take compliments?"

The tech looked at his display.  "It looks like using 'stunning sewage release' is her reboot command password."

"Is she Microsoft?  I'm not doing this every day."

"Did you add any programs?"

I think for a second.  "I told her to download her 'Saucy' profile.  So she only wears one or two dresses at a time.  She is going to poke someones eye out at the Cotillion."

"Huh," says the tech, still examining his readouts.

"That's when she collapsed.  So, figuring it was a corrupted file, I tried to download it six more times."

The tech groaned.

"Then I got more imaginative," I says.  "Maybe the 'Saucy' profile needed a broader framework.  You know, something darker.  I mean you can't just ask a lady who wears three pairs of pajamas to sleep to just flip out and be a whore, right?  So I included the 'Evil' add-on pack."

"The one that includes Hitler, Josef Mengele, Nero, Caligula, Kelly Ripa and Ann Coulter?"

Even as I point to my nose, Sapphire groggily moans awake.  "Where am I?" she asks.

"Solved that problem," says the tech, gesturing hastily to the others.  "Our work here is done.  Let's go.  Now!"  Sapphire looked around curiously as they gathered their gear and fled.  As he left, the head technician looked back at me and saluted, "Enjoy your vacation, sir!"

I wave enthusiastically.

"Thank you!"

Doctor Gudenstont

LOBO -Predator Press

"Hi Doctor!" I feel impelled to wave. She is only three feet away, but through her enormous magnifying glass, her eyeball alone is the size of a football. "Is 'Gudenstont' French?" I ask.

Doctor Gudenstont, alternating blue footballs at me, appears not to hear the question. "Vee shall have to do many, many tests on you," she concludes. "Many very painful tests." Without taking her alternating eyes off of me, she presses a button on the nearby telephone.

"Nurse Garrison?"

"Yes," came the almost instant disembodied reply.

"I vill need lots of needles. A hammer, and a pair of pliers ..." Her gigantic pupil dilates. "And a bone saw," she adds.

"The burlap sack labelled 'LOBO'?"

"Ja."

"Thank you doctor. I have been waiting a long time for this. I'll be right in."

"Hey," I argue with the footballs and disembodied voice. "I am a sculpted, athletic Adonis, and I've put numerous decades of hard work into achieving this body. I'm not falling for whatever insurance insurance scam you are trying to pull here."

Suddenly, Doctor Gudenstont jumped through the window of her own 15th floor examination room! I ran to the shattered window, watching in disbelief as she plunged toward the pavement. Then, a para-sail popped out, and she floated to a nearby waiting helicopter.

"Haben Sie das erreicht, dafür Sie gekommen sind?" The pilot yelled.

"Nein!" Doctor Gudenstont replied.

And as I watched them escape, diminishing over the horizon, I knew my fate was sealed. The die had been cast.

-Doctor Gudenstont is pretty cute for a French chick.