Smartbomb

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Kringle’s compound, while formidable, was no match for RDO’s advanced technology; still, Sapphire had the Alpha Scrambler to contend with.

“What’s that?” asked LOBO, exhausted from punching women and children. He was munching on animal crackers, and had a peculiar habit of eating only the heads and discarding the decapitated cookies all over the ship.

“The Alpha Scrambler is a wave transmitted by satellite that makes smart people stupid,” replied Sapphire.

“Like the Rush Limbaugh show?”

“Exactly.”

Thinking hard, Sapphire put her fingers to her lips. “I’m an android, so I’ll be immune. But I can’t do this alone. If the smarter you are the more susceptible you are, I’ll have to be careful who goes on the ground assault.” As she surveyed the available personnel her eyes fell on LOBO, who was scratching off lottery tickets on the navigation terminal with a quarter.

“You’re in,” she stated flatly.

“Wha--?”

“Yes. I’m going to rush the fat man. You have to disengage the scrambler and save our friends as they dangle precariously over the zinc smelter.”

“Uh, Sapphire, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m no hero. I mean I look great in a muscle shirt, true. But trust me … this body hasn’t seen a muscle since I was raped by Grace Jones. Besides, I think these animal crackers are starting to kick in--“

Sapphire emerged from the Daisy Mae firing her shotgun one handed, dragging LOBO by his ear with the other.

"But we can make new friends!" he sobbed.


***

LOBO followed the big arrows that read “SUPER SECRET COMPUTER DEFENSE SYSTEMS”, and arrived at a computer terminal. On the screen was an alphabetical list of names starting with the letter O. Skimming it quickly, the only name he recognized was Jimmy Orlando. Opposite his name was a column marked 'Nice', and beyond that was another column, curiously marked "EXCLAIMER".

"What the hell is an ‘EXCLAIMER’?" he wondered aloud, absently grabbing another animal cracker. Looking at the cookie, he realized it was half a seal.

Uh oh, he thought, examining the label on the bag.

It read: “DO NOT EAT IF SEAL IS BROKEN.”

Comcast

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Skip this post if you are looking for my usual happity horseshit: this post is intended for triggering search engines on the off-chance someone is looking for comments on internet/phone/cable services out here in Blogdom.

Let me say this clearly, and without equivocation:


COMCAST IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

And coming from a survivor of two marriages, that’s saying a lot.

This may be a localized problem; I know a lot of people online that seem to not have many issues. But the only other guy that I know in my immediate area with their services has already had it disconnected!

When you consider Comcast as your provider, be prepared for lies, empty promises, poor installation, long and frequent internet and phone service outages, lost income, blown-off service appointments and COUNTLESS hours on the phone (at your own personal expense).

Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s pretty damn expensive for all that?

Beware.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ford, Toyota and Chevrolet have all roundly rejected the Leviathan, my innovative alternative-energy SUV design.

Alas, the world shall never see the first automobile ever designed to run solely on rare and endangered species of wildlife. In the prototype, I got all the way to Tuscaloosa on six snow leopards, two condors and half a bald eagle.

So all you "alternative energy" hippie posers can just kiss my ass, okay? I thought you were serious.

The Joy of LOBO

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yeah, well there wasn't really much to do on the trip home, so I volunteered to babysit for the nine Mr. Insanity clones.

And it was all "are we there yet?" and "I want a bicycle" and "I'm hungry! We haven't eaten since Tuesday" blah blah blah nonsense ... the little bastards are completely impossible when it comes down to it.

And when I jacked up the one that said I was a 'Poo-Poo Head', things only got worse ...

Darlette

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Sapphire smacked LOBO.

Hard.

"Snap out of it!" she cried, smacking him again. "Wake up dumbass! Our friends are in trouble!"

RDO smacked him too. “Yeah! What she said!”

“Stop!” LOBO sobbed. “I got it! Please stop smacking me!”

RDO smacked him again, “Well, you did miss the second chorus.”

“Sir!” the tech interrupted, pointing at the video screen. “The trailer parks have formed their own anti-LOBO device!”

The fifty-foot tattooed and barefoot robot slowly rose, brandishing a frying pan the size of football goalposts, smashing trailers an puppies left and right.

The tech guy whistled.

“Our intelligence says she’s called ’Darlette’.”

Hangin Tough

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Legless Jim and I took charge of the barren Wal-Mart, and we immediately put the Greeters to work melting down the snow shovels and Twizzlers so we had some raw material to start a rather ambitious manufacturing project.

With China destroyed, there were no crappy electronics, cheap sneakers or horrible clothes to be bought; as a result, trailer parks were burning nationwide due to angry, naked, barefoot people with pit bulls.

We never even noticed that Sapphire was missing.

***

The Robot Dinosaur Overlord supervised his minion’s repairs personally.

“WHAT’S HER STATUS?” he asked.

“Well, she took some pretty nasty hits,” the tech surmised. “I’m seeing damage consistent with massive collisions, grenades ….”

RDO scratched his chin. “IT SEEMS WE UNDERESTIMATED THE HUMAN CAPACITY FOR VIOLENCE.”

“We may never know for sure, sir. Between the damage sustained and the various upgrades, it’s unlikely she will have much memory of what actually occurred.”

“WELL, I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO TESTING THE NEW WEAPONRY.” He reached behind Sapphire, and flipped the “on” switch.

“What is thy bidding, my Master?” she smiled demurely.

“THE IMMEDIATE EXTERMINATION OF OUR PRISONER, MAXIMILLIAN.”

“Sir,” interrupted the tech. “This will be in clear violation of our treaty with the Student Loan people and the Zombies.”

“I HAVE SOUGHT THIS TRAITOR FOR YEARS. MY INTERROGATION SPECIALISTS HAVE ALREADY DESTROYED HIS MIND. AS WE ARE ALREADY IN VIOLATION OF THE TREATY, THE PRISONER MUST DIE.”

Sapphire stood and checked the ammunition of her Winchester 12 gauge semi-automatic shotgun. The magazine full, she cocked the weapon one handed, smiling.

“As you wish.”

***

Donnie, Joey, Jordan, Danny, and Jonathan ... and Joey and, uh, Danny --the ‘Interrogation Specialists’—had truly outdone themselves. The prisoner was broken within hours by extreme exposure to The New Kids on the Block performing live, and 80,000 coupons for Bed, Bath and Beyond.

After a few days, he was even singing along with them.

RDO and Sapphire entered the room as the group practiced their choreography:

“Just get on the floor and do the New Kids dance
Don’t worry about nothing cause it won’t take long
We’re gonna put you in a trance with the funky song
Cause you gotta be... “

Drooling, a shattered LOBO sang along during the chorus in a pirouette inhibited by heavy chains.

“Hangin’ tough,
singin tough,
we’re rough,
Oh, oh, oh, oh--”

Sapphire shrieked in utter horror. “Oh my God!” she cried. “That’s not Max, that’s LOBO!

RDO turned and yelled over his shoulder.

”GODDAMNIT ERIC!”

Hands freed, a wild-eyed LOBO spat foam as he grabbed Sapphire’s lapel.

“Please,” he begged in a raspy whisper.

“Take me … to … Banana … Republic ….”

The Empire Strikes Out

Predator Press

[LOBO]

You know, were it not for wayne1960, I would never have known that the Plaid Elephant was there.

"Got yourself pretty fucked now," he says.

"This is nothing," I says nonchalantly. "You shoulda seen me when New Kids on the Block were getting airplay." I twist so I can face him, and then employ the Jedi Mind Trick. "You want to release me from these shackles."

The great Plaid Elephant balked, "You fool. The Jedi Mind Trick only works on the weak minded."

"--only works on the weak minded," I repeated.

"I sense a great disturbance in The Farce," says the elephant.

"--great disturbance in The Farce," I says.

"We'll need lots of peanuts," he says.

"Peanuts," says me.

"And I get huge royalties for showing up in this story," the Great One says.

"Not a fuckin chance," I says. "Got any peanuts?"

Much Fanfare

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well bless our little black hearts, we finally made 10,000 hits.

Thank you readers, particularly those doing their psychiatry practicum on us: those government grants go a long way for pizza and beer.

Still, it's a little difficult to show our appreciation properly. Not really because of a lack of words, but because I'm chained hanging by my wrists in the brig of the Daisy Mae, speeding back to The Leading Edge of the Center of the Universe; it's hard to properly address my enthusiasm while having to blog with my toes.

I got separated from the rest, and my capture was brokered chiefly between the Robot Dinosaur Overlord and the Student Loan people. The Student Loan people, while normally a typical colossal effigy of government inefficiency, sneakily petitioned Satan and got my body switched back. And judging from the condition Princess Phoebe left me in, I'll bet Max is gonna be pissed.

RDO gets to torture me for the first 1,000 years, and then Dash and the Alien Zombies get me for the next 1000. Finally, the Student Loan people get me, and it's their distinct honor to perform the proper execution.

Ha! Fooled them Student Loan people again, didn't I? I'll never live 2000 years!

What dumbasses.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Phoebe was standing over me as the ship sank.

"C'mon LOBO," she insisted over my broken and battered pile of hapless flesh and bones. "We have to fight Admiral Crunch!"

Prostrate, I mutter vainly through a leathery, swollen head.

"You can't give up now," she pleaded encouragingly. "It's like falling off of a horse. What do you do when you fall off of a horse?"

"You shoot them," I mumbles.

Beautiful White Stallion --spattered with oil and gunpowder stains-- was quiet until now, cringing under the closing explosions. "This guys a jerk," he concludes to Phoebe.

Goddamn it I thought. A concussion.

This has been a long day.

Above all else, pretend you don't see that damn polka-dotted horse.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Honestly, I don't think that crazy bitch Phoebe noticed the eight camouflaged elves with AR-15s and rocket launchers when they started their assault. She just rubbed her cheek and glared at me. "Oh, it's on bitch!" she smiled.

Jimmy Orlando screamed as hot, elven AR-15 lead darkened the skies. Armored little people in black started repelling from the upper floor.

"Back to the ship!" Brighta commanded.


***

Well, most everybody ran away to the Bloodlust like cowardly sissys; at least I have the distinction of getting my ribs broken as Princess Phoebe round-housed my limp, bleeding carcass onboard.

The last aboard was Brighta, furiously dueling with Admiral Crunch. The cutlasses clanged loudly as Brighta desperately fought to prevent us from being boarded.

But Crunch's Navy, simultaneously, was blowing holes into the port side of the Bloodlust. Ultimately, the grand warship was hit so hard, the letters "L,O,O,D, and L" fell off into the ocean.

Starboard, we saw Dash Cunning on the deck of an armored hydrofoil. Sporting his new bionic Brad Pitt legs and a pith helmet, he laughed evilly.

And behind him was the vast Alien Zombie Armada.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I was only slowly regaining consciousness.

The Crone was saying something about 'The Dragon' destroying China.

"Does that evil dragon have a name?" asks Princess Phoebe.

"Yes," says The Crone. "His name is 'Scraps'."

Brighta tried to heave me onto my woozy legs. "So the dragon destroying China's name is 'Scraps'?" he asks.

"See for yourselves," says The Crone, workin the TIVO remote control. "They have footage of Scraps wading up through the Tokyo Harbor on CNN".

The actual footage was rather blasé and unspectacular ... the Japanese were kinda used to this sort of thing. But the point was well taken.

"We have to stop it!" says Brighta.


***

See, I already know this whole thing is a scam. 'China' is a made-up thing by the CIA, just like The Soviet Union, Vietnam, the 'Moon Landing', and Oprah ... It's all a vast global conspiracy to keep America livin in fear. Just like that 'World is Round' dogma.

C'mon, think about it: if there really was a "France", wouldn't we have just airlifted New Jersey over and dropped it on 'em? Of course we would've. In fact, I'll bet we would nuke it ten years later just in case any roaches survived ...

Balanced by Brighta, I blinked my blackened eyes open.

Princess Phoebe was looking at me carefully. "Are you okay?" she asked. "I'm really sorry about that. We're trying to save the world."

I mumbled something softly, and she leaned in closely to hear.

An that's when I jacked her up.

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

As Ethan watched oblivious from his skyscraper headquarters, his home was under attack.

The Keebler Elves had dug a tunnel into his cereal cabinet, and --once unified--hundreds of tiny evil commercial mascots of were paratrooping all over his kitchen ....

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

I was in a Wal-Mart when I got the call from Legless Jim, somewhat bewildered. For some reason, there was nothing on the shelves except snow shovels and Twizzlers.

“Man I can’t believe this,” says Legless Jim over the cell phone.

“Believe what?” I says absently.

“Dude,” he says. “Somebody stole Brad Pitt’s legs!”

Something is wrong.

Something is really wrong.

Writing on Fire

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Surly, a chiseled 6'6" tall, 280 lbs steroid-jazzed Kris Kringle was in no mood to take any shit.

While Kriss "Krusher" Kringle had a promising career in the WWE --particularly in light of his 'finishing move', The Santa Claw-- when he showed up in a white leotard and mask proudly brandishing his initials, he was summarily --publicly-- fired by Vince McMahon.

To make matters worse, Kringle had six payments left on Santa's Slayer -his new sleigh engineered by NASA and Harley Davidson. The fuckin lawyers in The Divorce were completely sucking him dry.

He got stuck in traffic for two hours leaving the coliseum, only to get a $75 ticket from a dickhead cop for failing to signal during a lane change.

And finally home, as he flew over his frozen fortress, his bad day was punctuated by spotting three polar bears stalking his reindeer stable.

By the time he got to the 650 lbs runt of the starving trio, he was almost too exhausted to snap it's neck with his bare hands.

But he managed.


***

Macabre mission accomplished, he couldn't ignore Babs anymore. "What?" he demanded.

Babs was running through the snow in her trademark thong, her nipples stuck through the bikini like sexy Howitzers. "You've got a letter from SGS!" she says excitedly, waving a folded piece of wet-seeming paper that smelled oddly of crab cakes and Russian submarine hull. "He's finally ready to go 'nice'!"

Kringle, slightly incredulous, heaved the last bear carcass into the zinc smelter. "I really doubt that," he panted through his blood-spattered beard.

"No honey," says the nubile beauty. "He says that LOBO is planning a sneak attack in October."

Kringle watched the bear's carcass flashed colorfully into oblivion, laughing.

"Don't sing it LOBO," he grinned. "Just bring it."

The Bachelor's Guide to the Twenty-First Century

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

I suppose I should start releasing some of these oddball drafts LOBO has left behind.

Here's one:


The Bachelor's Guide to the Twenty-First Century

Chapter 16: Doing the Dishes

1) Wake up.

2) Make coffee.

3) Go to gas station to buy coffee as there are no clean coffee cups.

4) Clear off surfaces for dirty dishes so you can empty sink.

5) Go back to store to buy dishwashing liquid, cleaning products.

6) Put dirty dishes in bathtub so there is space for the cleaning products, soak thoroughly.

7) Go back to sleep (maybe the roommate will do them now; they are half done already).

8) Wake up again.

9) Curse at lazy, smelly roommate.

10) Go to gas station to buy coffee.

11) Pick up pizza (as there are no clean dishes).

12) Clear off cleaning products so there is space for pizza.

13) Clear out bathtub so there is space for cleaning products.

14) Put dishes in front lawn, run sprinkler.

15) Belay dishes in lawn: must hose beer cans off first.

16) Stack dirty dishes on hood of car.

17) In moment of serendipity, decide to drive to the car wash.

18) Stop and buy gas, Lotto tickets.

19) Drive through car wash.

20) Flip dishes over, and drive through car wash again.

21) Curse at car wash attendant for using hot wax, skimping on 'Jet Dry'.

22) Throw dirty dishes away.

23) Go to Sears and buy new dishes.

24) Job Completed! Celebrate with nice nap.

Yes, I Like Vagina

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Stop feelin sorry for Legless Jim!

I drew the short straw when in came to LOBO's charity work.

To raise money for ovarian cancer research, I have to hawk these "Yes! I Like Vagina!" T-Shirts ...

THE SCALDING

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

In LOBO's absence, we drew straws to see who would handle the "Hollywood" side of Predator Press.

Legless Jim lost.

I threw the thick packet of documents toward him, and it thumped heavily on the table.

Resigned to his fate, Legless Jim spun the fat manilla envelope around so he could read the big letters written across it:


The Scalding
by LOBO




and Rod Scattin

Legless Jim pulled out what was to be a mockup promo poster: it was of a rather large-chested, scantily clad woman standing in flames as she struggled with what appeared to be a evil, grinning chrome waffle iron. It’s electrical cord was tightly wrapped around her neck, and the plug was poised menacingly, pointed toward her tough-yet-frightened face.

This was all bad enough, but Jim skimmed the two-page script on the plane.

Throughout, the girl on the poster -affectionately referred to as ‘large-chested, scantily-clad chick number one’- is relentlessly tormented and attacked by a radioactive space toaster.

Legless Jim, an educated and enlightened man, flagged a flight attendant.

“Can I have a drink please?”


***

The effusive cast and crew greeted him as he arrived on the set.

“Big fan, Mr. Jim,” says Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, smiling broadly. “Nice legs.”

“Uh,” says Jim to into the heavy, hypnotic sway of the D-cups. "Yeah."

Legless Jim was corralled to the set.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” says a homeless-looking guy. “I am the Producer of The Scalding, and I’m sparing no effort or expense to make this the greatest epic thriller since The Exorcist." A thick bourbon smell complimented his whispers. "We are now filming the scene when Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One’s boyfriend arrives after his CIA mission."

“Alright, everybody,” demands the apparent director. “Quiet on the set. Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, this is your Big Scene. I want to see some fear. And ... Action!”

Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One cringes against the large picture window in the kitchen [?] as special effects guys pull a rather un-menacing looking waffle iron crablike across the countertop with fishing line.

Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One screams, mascara-stained tears raining down over her magnificent bosom. She kicks at the waffle iron vainly with her high-heels. “You’re lucky my boyfriend isn’t here,” she cries.

“Alright, mark!” says the director. “Cue airplane now!”

A tiny plastic model of a Stealth Bomber –also on fishing line— starts randomly spinning in a downward trajectory by the picture window.

“There he is!”, exclaims Large-Chested, Scantily-Clad Chick Number One, pointing. “He’ll stop you, you evil radioactive space waffle iron!”

Suddenly, the Stealth Bomber’s fishing line got tangled with the toaster's electrical cord. And after a few frenetic moments, the toaster flew up in the air, crashing solidly into the plasic Stealth Bomber.

Both burst into flames.

The fishing line burned away, the two objects fall to the ground with a hideous clang off camera.

“Cut!” yells the director. He stands. “That was brilliant! I'm already envisioning the 'Revenge of the Toaster' sequel!”

“What exactly is the budget for this production?” asks Legless Jim.

“About eight bucks.” Says the producer. “You got a quarter? We need more fishing line.”

Lights Out

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I have never been hit so hard.

Seriously.

You know how your whole head lights up and you smell this almost-electrical bone and blood smell, and then you're just completely gone?

That Phoebe has a mean left hook.

Please don't let ... Orlando ... administer ... CPR ...

Disorientation

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Fritz!" Jimmy Orlando wailed, falling to his knees at the news. "Oh my God, not Fritz!"

"Who is Fritz?" LOBO whispers to Brighta.

"Fritz was Jimmy's," he does quote marks in the air with his fingers, "Life Partner."

"Well what happened to the poor bastard?"

"He was the Commander of the Johnson, and killed in the line of duty during a recent troop deployment. Didn't you see any of this in the news?"

"Uh," I says. "Nope."

A prostrate Jimmy Orlando, heaving loud sobs as he wept, was absolutely uncontrollable with grief. Princess Phoebe held him, rocking slowly and drying his tears with a tissue.

I nudged him with my foot. "Dude, if you keep blubbering like this, people are going to think you're gay or something."

Orientation

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

I thought maybe I could help Max 'acclimate' to his new world by explaining his predecessor to some degree. LOBO's itinerary included picking up his repaired lawn mower from Sears, so I tried to offer some insights and observations on the way.

Fascinated by the modern and alien surroundings, Max didn't say a word until we were at the counter. "This LOBO character doesn't sound very responsible. I'm a little impressed that he even owns a lawn mower."

"Me too," I admitted. "Especially since he ripped out the lawn two years ago and laid down green linoleum. Now once or twice a month he just hoses the beer cans off into the gutter."

The clerk wheeled out the new-looking John Deere. "There's no charge," says the guy. "Tell LOBO that this mower will last for years if he stops using it to make daiquiri ice. The only thing wrong with it was a defective diaphragm. It was messing up the fuel intake."

I looked at Max waiting.

Max looked back at me, confused.

"This is where LOBO would say something like 'See, I'm so virile my lawn mower needs a diaphragm'."

This is going to be tough. I can tell.

Pedigree

Predator Press

[LOBO]

First of all, my ex-wife is a magnificent woman, and I hope that she is enjoying the happiness that she deserves.

And notably, I was briefly in Hell. So --what with the time distortion and all-- I had an eternity to rethink the whole relationship over and over, to try to find some way to make amends for being a total and complete insensitive bastard the entire time: If you see her, please tell her that I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry.

And if it's any consolation, this bodyswitching crap hurts more than it did either time Tupac shot me.

I fumbled and staggered to stand and look in the mirror. Strangely, "CONAN the BARBARIAN" was scrawled accross the top.

Well, I thought. At least this guy is almost as buff as me.

After a few long moments, Princess Phoebe piped up. "Brighta, why is Max flexing at the Arnold Schwarzenegger poster?"