A Flimsy Pretext

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Watching a jousting exhibition at Excalibur, LOBO and Legless Jim were covered head to toe in tourist souvenirs.

Legless Jim was quiet and contemplative; having bought Brad Pitt's legs, he could no longer be called "Legless Jim" and needed to come up with a new nickname.

"How about 'Blind Jim'?", asks LOBO, offering his Excalibur sunglasses.

"Can you really forgive ten years of debt to Las Vegas?" I asked over the cheering crowd.

"Sure," says LOBO confidently, sipping noisily from the bottom of his Excalibur flagon of Diet Excalibur Pepsi through a green curly Excalibur straw, jammed tightly against the tiny Excalibur umbrella. "It's a well-known fact that these Las Vegas guys are really generous and forgiving at heart. Those mobsters and stuff are all made up Hollywood eye-candy to disguise the soft-hearted and selfless nature of your average casino owner."

The lead character was on the field. The tall, handsome young blonde guy in armor was dispatching six big thugs in a fantastic flurry of buzz-saw swordplay.

"See?" says LOBO, dropping his Excalibur fries in excitement. "That is how my stunts in LOBO: The Motion Picture should look." He sticks his tiny plastic Excalibur sword in my chest. "Remind me to give George Lucas a call."

With an invisible Excalibur pencil, I pretended to write that down on an invisible Excalibur pad.

Distracted, my Excalibur nachos had long since gone cold and soggy. I decide to breach the subject of my preoccupation. "Right before we crashed our plane into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers --causing Las Vegas to spontaneously and inexplicably forgive ten years of gambling debts-- you were saying something about our, uh, our matching birthmarks."

"What?" says LOBO. "Oh. This." He turns his forearm to bear the curious birthmark and flicked it off with his finger.

Stunned, I turn my arm to my own birthmark. Rubbing it with my fingers, it started to peel off.

"Ethan has a trademark on the kit." LOBO explained. "You never know when a bunch of adhesive birthmarks might come in handy."

The crowd cheered as Prince Valliant somersaulted into furious combat with The Black Knight.

"So you're not my father." I sigh in relief.

"I didn't say that." says LOBO.

But you've never even slept with Sapphire."

LOBO smiled wistfully. "Not yet."

My face soured. The repulsive thought of mom and dad having sex made my mind slam shut like a trap, punctuated by the sound of Prince Charming and the Black Knight clashing steel.

"Look." says LOBO. Sensing my apprehension, he patted my shoulder assumingly. "You have to lighten up. And stop asking so many questions." He sighed. "You'll go crazy!"

"I suppose you're right," I said.

"Cohesive themes and good, solid plotlines are such a hassle," he whispers. "They completely mitigate the possibility of anything weird ever happening."

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]


When it came to the Press Conference, LOBO was magnificent. I was watching his reaction on the news from the furthest thing on the face of the Earth.

A nearby church.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, bowing, waving his hands to silence the flashing and scribbling throng. "Freedom-loving citizens of Las Vegas, I've never been on TV before, so please remember that if you break into a musical number, I will kill you all".

Suddenly spotting the hot blonde from CNN he adds, "Except you".


***

On television, he seems to be rather conspicuously flipping through some index cards as "Legless Jim" asks a guy in an Armani for a quarter.

Ignoring Jim, the Armani guy pauses to watch the broadcast, brashly blocking our view.

LOBO continued, as I heard on "Legless Jim's" transistor radio: "As the hundredth plane crash into the Leaning Pyramid of Disco-Lighted Sphinx Laser Waterfall Towers, I would like to thank MGM for celebrating the occasion by forgiving ten years of Vegas-wide gambling debts."

It was then that "Legless Jim" --sobbing tears of joy-- punched "Mr. Armani" square in the nuts ...

Lovefool

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After centuries, mass transit was not yet perfected.

Particularly in the case when everyone that works on it is dead; Max, Brighta and Vetter were kicked off a full half of a mile before reaching the home of The Crone, and no transfers were issued.

In secrecy, they observed The Crone: a spitting, toothless, bitter old woman, quietly puttering around her yard. "Where the Hell are those jerks?" she would complain, picking weeds from her vegetable garden.

Impatient, Brighta burst forward. "Madam, we are those jerks. In the name of King Casio, you and all--"

"Yes, yes," cackled The Crone. "Here to rape and plunder, eh?"

"Uh, no. Actually--"

"Says right here," Max interupted, unrolling an official-looking scroll from his breast pocket. "Find and conquer Towndaleburgville. Rape, pillage and plunder. Signed King Casio." he re-rolled the document and returned it to his coat. "Now, Vetter always takes 'plunder'. And I've got dibs on 'pillage' ..."

The Crone smiled, flirting toothlessly, flashing her dagger-like eyelash.

"But I don't want rape this time!" cried Brighta. "You always take rape!"

"Not this time."

"Can I just do the horse?"

The Crone started buttoning her blouse. "Listen you jerks. You need a country to invade, and I need an invaded country to live in." She spat. "What we have to do is find a way to defeat the dragon."

Brighta whined "I don't know how you expect to get laid if you call your genitalia 'The Dragon' ... "

"No, dumbass. We need to fight evil. Therefore, we need to locate an ultimate wanton cesspool of debauched and sinful desire, and find someone that is excelling in such a dangerously evil place."

"You hoo!" a familiar female voice called from the back. "Old lady, I can't find my bikini top!"

Max drew his sword. "What's that vile woman?" he threatened. "A trap? A vile ogre, bent on pounding our bones into a fine, pasty pulp to be squeezed though a cheap screen door--?"

"That's Princess Phoebe. She's sunning by the pool."

Somewhere, barely out of sight, Beautiful White Stallion fainted dead away with a huge crash.

"Alright I call bullshit!" exclaimed Brighta as they walked around the dilapidated shack. He pointed at his counting fingers, "Princess Phoebe was most plainly killed in 'A Fairy Tale' released by LOBO in 1999 ..."

All became quiet as Princess Phoebe climbed out of the heated indoor pool. Shaking her waist-length dark hair, droplets of water ran down her well-oiled curvy features.

And for a heated indoor pool, wow was it cold in there.

"My God!" said Brighta. "She looks delicious. And let me tell you, I've eaten my share of people--"



***

"There!" The Crone pointed at the Crystal Ball. "That's a goddamned hero."

As they all watched in the glass, a single man leapt and bounded from horse to horse, slaying inept attackers left and right.

Brighta whistled. "Did you see that? That was goddamn amazing!"

"Why are you showing us this, woman?" asked Max. He wasn't paying attention. He was watching Pheobe.

"Because that's our dragon-slaying hero dumbass."

"Why are you calling me a dumbass?" asked Pheobe. She wasn't paying attention. She was watching the valiant knight in the crystal ball.

The Crone sighed. "Because he's the only hope for the future of Towndaleburgville!"

"So where do we find him?"

The Crone turned the ball over and shook it. When the snow settled, she pointed.

"Says here, 'Las Vegas' ..."

White Lies

Predator Press

[LOBO]

MAXIMILLIAN was scrunched tightly in the bottom of the crow’s nest, roasting slowly under the blistering noonday sun. The confined area made him suddenly aware of how badly he smelled. He pulled his sweat-matted hair from his piqued ear and listened carefully.

“Land!” Brighta repeated tearfully in the distance, laughing. “Goddamn it, land!”

Yeah fuck you, Max thought. The last time he fell for this, Brighta was waiting for him with a lead pipe and a boiling cauldron. He gripped the hilt of his sword in silence.

But soon he heard Vetter and Brighta, animated in the distance. Vetter began to join the celebration.

Skeptical, Max carefully peeked over the edge.

And there it was.



***

Max was the navigator and current ranking officer on the battleship-class Bloodlust: the last surviving vessel of the great armada sent by King Casio the Second to invade The Exotic Western Shores -- King Casio abbreviates it "Exotic Whores" in an apparent drunken spat of bad penmanship-- so illegal copies of them could be "attained" and distributed over the internet so Metallica would get really pissed off.

With puzzling orders, Max, Brighta and Vetter were the sole survivors of the legendary and mighty Bloodlust crew.

They had been lost at sea for two years.

Transgressions momentarily forgotten, all hands joined on the deck to rejoice the sudden good fortune.



***

As the Bloodlust could not be piloted to shore by the three surviving crewmembers, they dropped anchor and boarded a dingy to row to the beach. Vetter could not contain himself: his big sloppy grin beamed as he rowed, his huge arms bulging under the welcome labor.

“A saucy wench, a pint of ale, and a leg of lamb,” Brighta laughed merrily. “What about you, Vetter?”

Vetter just smiled broadly, pulling the oars with his mighty arms.

Max studied his maps. “We still have our mission.”

"Perform a full-scale invasion of the country. Right." Brighta seized the maps and cast them into the sea. “There's three of us left! That’s what I think of the damned mission!”

Max thought better of diving in after the useless maps. When they left, those same maps seemed infallible: find the North Star and sail due west. But one night the North Star was simply gone, replaced by stars with strange names like "Steve Loves Amanda" and "The Great Ogre Vortex". Still, he glared furiously at Brighta.

Brighta spat into the sea, too hungry to squabble over details. “Look at that pillar of smoke!” he grinned. “I’ll bet there’s a feast being prepared even as we speak!”

Vetter frowned.

As they grew closer, they could see that it was indeed no cooking fire. An entire village was ablaze.

Brighta’s mood began to slide into the serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he finally declared. Sniffing the air, he paused. "Does anybody else smell quiche?"



***

By the time they pulled the small boat ashore on the beautiful empty beach, the sun was setting. Max studied the barren landscape with some concern. It was too quiet. “Brighta, we need fresh water and food. Vetter, you gather some firewood.”

“And be careful,” Max continued. “Something is wrong here.”

“Shhh!” Brighta interrupted. “Listen!”

Hoofbeats.

Max and Brighta drew their swords as a lean and magnificent riderless beautiful white stallion galloped into the clearing.

"Ah Christ" Beautiful White Stallion muttered to himself. "Now what?"

"You there!" demanded Max. "In the name of King Casio, you and all of the realm of the depraved cretin King King are hereby commanded to lay down your arms and --"

"Look buddy," said the stallion, still in full gallop. "First of all, I don't surrender to people without the mental voltage to jumpstart a mouse trap." And as the steed faded in the foliage, he added. "... And by the way, everybody is dead. Have fun with your new kingdom!"

"Nice going, dumbass!" said Brighta, smacking Max behind his head. "The first food we're seen in months--" Brighta rolled his eyes as he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, swishing his hips "--and you do the whole 'I command you to lay down your arms' bit--."



***

Tracking Beautiful White Stallion took several hours, as Beautiful White Stallion had enormous disdain for rugged forest. A metropolitan and educated creature, Beautiful White Stallion stuck traditionally with main thoroughfares, highways, and public transportation.

But Max had made a crude sketch, and asking around, they traced him to am exotic French Boutique named "Le Towndaleburgville Chic". After a day at the spa the hunt resumed in the form of questioning the locals.

"Oh yes," Pierre replied. "I'll bet Beautiful White Stallion went to see the Crone. The Crone is the sole survivor of the dragon attack."

"But if there were no survivors, who are you people?" asked Max.

Pierre leaned forward, whispering. "A great evil has come over this place." He nervously looked over his shoulder. "The author of this story is ... well ..." With his index finger, he drew a repeating circle around his right temple.

"Oh my God," gasped Brighta. "I knew it. I fucking knew it--"

"Eh," Pierre shrugged. "At least it's not Wes Craven."

"Or Dean Koontz," Max agreed.

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Mr. Insanity was getting rattled.

"What are we gonna do?"

"Look," I says, grabbing his lapels. "We don't have time for this. I need you to get a grip on yourself. Now help me find my --I mean our-- parachutes."

"Get a grip?" Mr. Insanity demanded, pointing out the window. "Were on a plane that's being ripped apart --in flight-- by an indestructible psychopathic newlywed robot! How bad does it gotta be before I'm allowed to lose my fucking mind?"

Out the window, we saw Captain Smith jump out of the cargo bay on a motorcycle.

With my parachute.

"That's no way to talk about your mother," I scolded.

"My mother!?" Mr. Insanity laughed hysterically. "Six months ago, she was rolling off of an assembly line. I'm forty-four you goddamn nut case!"

"You know that heart-shaped birthmark on your forearm?" I turned his arm to show it to him. Then I pulled up my sleeve and showed him mine.

Identical.

"That's no way to talk to your father, you little bastard."

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Glenda couldn't go ... she wanted to stay home and wax her mustache.

So that left Mr. Insanity, me and a lifeless Dash Cunning. And when Dash "came to" he kept insisting that there was someone on the wing, tearing up the airplane engine. So I suspect Sapphire was tagging along to some capacity as well.

We absently wolfed down plastic wrapped boxes of chicken cordon bleu and lobster tails, admiring her destructive prowess through the oval window as the passengers screamed.

"Why didn't she just come onboard with the rest of us?" asked Mr. Insanity. "We bought her a ticket."

"One day son," says me "when you're old enough, I'll explain to you the differences between men and women."

"But I'm forty four. I'm almost ten years older than you are. Hell, I bought the beer at our Superbowl party!"

Stupid kids. Always so anxious to grow up. "Has Dash stopped screaming yet?"

Mr. Insanity lifted his heavy boot from the pillow over Dash's face. "Sleeping, I guess."

"Poor guy. Must be exhausted to sleep through all this."


***

Eventually, we were summoned to the cockpit.

Captain Smith was furious. "Who the hell is that chick ripping apart my airplane and endangering all of our lives?" he demanded.

"That's Sapphire," I replied. "She's a little moody from time to time. Estrogen imbalances combined with a hydraulic pressure surge would be my guess."

"Isn't she the--?" Mr. Insanity began.

"She," I interrupted, "has just had her heart broken by that guy with the pillow on his head." I pointed at Dash. "Mr. Cunning has stolen her heart, her virtue, and all her albums --including the boxed set of William Shatner, Live at Budokan-- and now refuses to marry her."

Mr. Insanity looked at me, bewildered.

"The cad!" growled Captain Smith. "The boxed set? The one that has Shatner doing Darling Nikki with Patrick Stuart and Lemmie from Motorhead?"

"The very same," I says.

"I'll fix this right now. I'm a Captain, dammit. I can marry people." The Captain wandered back into the passenger section. "Anybody have any objections to these two getting hitched?"

The panicking passengers stopped lighting fires and stabbing each other. After a moment of quiet reflection, they all replied in unison "No. Not really."

"Then I now present you with Mister and Misses Dash Cunning. You may all sit down and finally shut the Hell up." Captain Smith turned on his heel and returned to the cockpit, slamming the door.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" asked Mr. Insanity.

"It was mine wasn't it?" I says distractedly. But after five minutes, I still can't find the parachute I had stowed in my briefcase under the laptop.

Houston, we may have a problem.

Las Vegas

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The flight to Vegas wasn't pleasant.

My full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded "90 Day Free" AOL discs was wiped out by a full-scale replica of an F-4 Tornado, which continued on to destroy the rest of our hometown Pianosa as we knew an loved it.

"My God," I said to the insurance company. "The whole replica?"

"Yes sir."

"What about the rest of the town?"

"Totaled sir. The entire town has been catastrophically wiped from the face of the Earth."

"Wow."

"We estimate the damages to be around $85. There will be a plumber and an electrician there in the morning. Whole town should be completely replaced by four o'clock".

"What the hell am I supposed to do --homeless-- in the meantime?" I demanded. "And what happens with my full-scale replica of a trailer park made of discarded 90 Day Free AOL discs?"

"If you would like to check on the status of your claim, please press six."

"But I was just talking to somebody!"

"No you weren't. If you would like to speak to an operator, please press the Scroll Lock."

”The what? On the telephone?”

“Too late,” said the voice. “Welcome to the Main Directory …”


***

Around midnight the subsequent and comprehensive voice mail instructed "If you have a pastel colored DC-9 labeled 'Aloha' handy, press four".

I pressed four, and an insurance adjuster said I should just go to Vegas ...