Parting Schatt

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

"Remember this?" I demanded, kicking the old man in the stomach. I stuffed the rumpled paper into the old business teacher's face.

"Yes," cried the muffled voice. "It's a ridiculous business model presented by an idiot former student of mine. LOBO, I think!"

"Yeah, well he's a bigshot war hero now. So we had this checked out by Steven Hawking. It turns out you gave him a 'C' because you forgot to carry the one when you checked his math!" I kicked him again.

"Steven Hawking is a hack--!" wailed the sobbing, frail instructor. "A reckless mathematical maverick!"

"Professor Schatt," I continued, "for failing to credit LOBO with the delivery of eighty thousand widgets per year since 1997, the compiled interest, and the pain and suffering inflicted upon my client --your former student-- we hereby hold you liable for 352 trillion--"

"353 trillion," says Legless Jim, winking.

"--353 trillion dollars," I says, stompin on his lymph nodes.

"Let's go to the ATM," the broken professor whimpered.

Helter Skelter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Look," I says, scratching 'cuz of this itchy fucking uniform. "We have a lot in common. You're a cold-blooded superintelligent, giant, evil squid and I'm a ..."

Uh-oh.

"... really ... "

Think fast.

" ... notorious ..."

C'mon douchebag.

"Douchebag!" I says, relieved.

The superintelligent giant squid eyed me warily.

"I'm serious!" I says. "When's the last time that Santa asshole showed up for you, hm?"

The squid's giant eye, hanging on an articulated eyestalk, was tearing up. (And for all you people that read books and crap, yes I know squids don't have articulated eyestalks. This is my story. So go read Quincy or something, smartass!)

"Well, this year would be the 25th Anniversary of 'Silent Night, Holy Crap'," I says in yet another desperate effort to get you confused new readers to go back to the March 2006 Archives link --almost directly to the right of this post-- when these fuctup plotlines got started. "And I've got a little payback planned out for The Fat Man."

The superintelligent giant squid squealed with glee.

"You want in?" I asked.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

MY mom taught me two things in life: never trust whitey, and how to use Morse code.

Unfortunately, the brain cells that contained that information were rapidly promoted to Respiration and Pulmonary Activity after that Def Leopard concert in 1984.

So I'm hoping I'm tapping out:

"Victory Is Declared! 2,000 soldiers deployed successfully. Without a single shot fired, they have melted into the Russian community. Assimilation is so complete, the Russians are already dressing and acting like our soldiers. Will drive the ship back to US when tide comes in. Also will want to talk about this Brigadier General uniform ... it's itchy. Plus I look better in softer tones apparently. Can I just wear a pirate hat? Anyways, helpless at sea with 35 trillion dollars worth of US war machine and military secrets, so hope to 'see' (haha) you soon. Yours Truly, Brigadier General LOBO."

When the Russian subs surfaced on the port side, I started getting nervous.

But when the Superintelligent Giant Squid snatched them up and gobbled them whole --laughing his mirthless laugh as the mighty hulls burst in his powerful grasp-- I had to change my shorts.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

The War Room was a living, breathing entity during the crisis.

"Sir, the SS Johnson has gone down in the San Francisco Bay," said Corporal Huett.

General Hamms scratched his forehead. "The Johnson? Isn't that the one with all those damned 'Village People'?"

It was almost a rhetorical query: he knew the ship's name well. For weeks he had suffered the sleepless, quiet dread of this particular aircraft carrier appearing on the Iraqi horizon. "How did this happen?" asks the General.

"The last report we have was from Commander Fritz. It details some kind of problem with configuring the tanning beds to the nuclear reactor." He pauses. "2000 souls presumed lost"

"2000 gay souls, right?"

"Presumably."

An officer wearing a headset interrupted. "Sir! It's the President on line three."

General Hamms sighed deeply as he picked up the phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he answered rigidly. "Yes sir. Right in the Bay." A pause. "2000 sir." He nods. "Yessir. All fruitcakes. Mostly democrats, and maybe a few bonus Protestants too."

"Sir!" snapped the soldier. "We have the interior decorator responsible for sinking the vessel on line four."

"He survived?"

"Apparently."

"Well get that boy out here!" the General demands. "He's a goddamned national hero!"


***

It turned out that the SS Johnson had indeed sunk, but the water was only a few inches deep. So LOBO stood staring out over a throng of pastel-colored capri-cut camouflage khakis and silk Aloha shirts as he received his telephoned field promotion to Brigadier General.

And sadly in front of 2,000 soggy seamen, he was ironically unable to think of a single joke to tell.

He picked up his issue of Playboy --LOBO was rarely seen anymore without a copy of Playboy or Juggs ever since the induction ceremony-- and jammed it in a militant fashion under his arm as he looked out over the bridge.

The visible billboards were all in Spanish.

LOBO doesn't speak or read Spanish.

So this is Russia he thought. A mere fifteen minutes at sea, and we're here already.

He turned to the group. "Gentlemen, we have arrived. And as the current ranking officer, I see no reason not to continue the invasion as scheduled."

The jazzed crowd cheered.

He turned to the bay, determined, and slapped the Playboy loudly on the wet deck.

"Alright boys. Start the musical number!"

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

So we're on the maiden voyage of the SS Johnson, and Private First Class Curr has been assigned to redecorate the entire thing.

After having it painted pink, LOBO added eighteen bars, four saunas, six brothels, a casino, two crack houses, and a Banana Republic; all of which guaranteed Predator Press 5% of the net profit.

The thing sunk in the harbor.

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Sergeant Bellows looked over LOBO's application with a raised eyebrow. "In the box marked 'sex', you wrote 'often'."

LOBO and Legless Jim snickered.

"Oh wow that's funny," says the swiveling cigar. From somewhere in the smoke, he says "I've never seen that one before."

"Well, it's 'don't ask, don’t tell', right?" says Legless Jim.

"That's for sexuality."

We could see LOBO's dream of being deployed on an all-female aircraft carrier disintegrate in his glassy eyes.

"But 'please indicate your sexuality' is on the application!" he protested.

"Yeah, I see that. And you wrote 'flaming gay' ..."

"So I could be deployed with the hot chicks!"

"Whatever."

Well okay, now I'm curious. "But I thought your couldn't ask--"

Bellows swings the cigar into his waiting fingertips. "We didn't ask. We told him to fill out this application." Cigar in the ashtray, he leans back. "Look, how are we ever going to prosecute people for 'asking' if we don't know that the truth is? At least this way, if anybody calls Mr. Curr 'flaming gay', we can immediately shoot them because we know they asked."

"Hm," Says LOBO, now intrigued. "But what if someone calls me a 'raving heterosexual' or something?"

"Don't worry," I says. "There's no danger of that. In the entire span of this Blog, the only chick that even remotely wanted to pounce you got run over with a spaceship."

"But I'm not gay," says LOBO.

We all stare.

"I'm not!!!"

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Sergeant Bellows was a short, tough looking guy. Squarish. Looks like a bulldog twirling a cigar in his mouth.

So far, of all the potential recruits for today, he's only had to refuse one: some guy named Cunning tried to sneak in with a broken pelvis.

The quota for the day already met, he quietly listened to LOBO with some interest, leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head.

"So I got my cotton plants growing, and I'm trying to find polyester plants so I can just make the T-Shirts right from my house." LOBO strokes his chin in thoughtful distraction. "Now I'm worried about security issues: industrial and national espionage. With $200, I've got to find a way to get rid of those surveillance satellites." He pulls two tiles. "So I think What about the Venus Fly Trap?", he continues in animated triumph. "I mean plant a bunch of em around my place, and feed 'em live cattle and steroids."

LOBO places his tiles on the board. I-T.

Silently, Sergeant Bellows leans forward and places his own tiles --T-O-U-R-N-I-Q-U-E-T-- and after collecting fifteen more tiles, he resumes his contemplative listening.

Eyebrows furrowed, LOBO examines his tiles as he continues. "Yeah well, suddenly my commie-pinko neighbors are complaining," he scrunches his face in sardonic mockery. "All day and all night, I'm hearing 'they're too ugly', and 'the leaves are fallin in my yard', and 'has anyone seen my kids?'" He grabs his tile and spells O-N at the tail of 'bludgeon'. "And that's why I think we should go to war with Russia." He pauses. "You can authorize that, right?"

Sergeant Bellows builds on LOBO's "ON", making it PANTHEON. "Oh sure," says Bellows. The score is now two hundred six to eight in the stoic sergeant’s favor. "This is the Bush Administration. We'll just tell the President it was his idea in the morning."

The great cigar swivels to the other side of his mouth, "The president is always way gung-ho after his Pop Tarts."