Saturday

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Too depressed to even defile any graves, LOBO wailed over Legless Jim's coffin. "Why?" he sobbed at the empty sky. "Why Jim? He was such a good guy. Young, vibrant ... so full of life and love! He had so much to contribute."

I put my hand on his shoulder, and for a second, his tearful eye met mine. Then he turned and shook his fist upward, "Couldn't you take Mr Insanity instead? I mean he's actually on the payroll ...!"


***


The Chick Magnet wouldn't start, so Sapphire drove LOBO, Legless Jim and I home. Legless Jim rode shotgun; he was developing a thing for the girl.

"It'll never work," LOBO whispers to me. "She might be a malfunctioning psychotic robot, but even with Brad Pitt's legs I don't think necrophilia is among her vast repertoire of neurosi and insecurities."

"'Vast repertoire--'?!" says Sapphire, slamming on the brakes.

"Hey," LOBO continues. "It's not my fault you're a psychological wasteland of irrational thought processes--"

Sapphire glared at him through the mirror for a moment in complete disbelief. Then, the overhead light came on as she opened the door.

"What he's trying to say," Legless Jim added, thinking quickly, "is that you are a very attractive woman that's just having an unlucky run right now."

She paused.

"Yeah," says LOBO. "You're a totally hot babe. There's absolutely no reason you shouldn't be beating guys off with both hands."

"We're going to be late for the séance if we don't get moving," I says, nervously close to the man who would soon be turned into a smoldering crater.

"Séance?" says LOBO, alarmed.

Sapphire shut the door, and activates the door locks, smiling coyly.

"Yeah," I says. "We're going to try to contact Legless Jim from the other side."

LOBO shrunk in his seat. "We're going to contact the dead?"

"Yes," says Sapphire, grinning. "Haven't done anything to piss off the dead lately, have you?"

LOBO couldn't hear.

He was loudly trying to chew his way through the car door.
Predator Press

[LOBO]

Receiving the news of Legless Jim's untimely death came as quite a shock.

Especially to Legless Jim.

"But I'm not dead," he would insist.

I took it really hard.

I couldn't even gloat.

Walking out to the Chick Magnet, my badass ride, I just sort of collapsed against the primered 1990 Plymouth Horizon. And for a long, quiet moment of serious mortal self-reflection, I writhed in the excruciating pain of tragic loss.

"But I'm not dead, dumbass!" says poor old Lifeless, Legless Jim.

His obituary was featured in the Las Vegas Times --along with the 1999 other brave heroes lost in the Russian invasion-- on page 53 of the People section.

My "WWID" license plate obscured in comet-like dust behind my car, Legless Joe incessantly badgered me the whole way to the funeral, completely wrecking my somber, agonized grief.

It's a good thing this disrespectful fuck is already dead, I thought.

Thursday

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

LOBO was so dejected from his court martial, Legless Jim and I were at a complete loss as to what to do with him.

Ultimately, we hadda take him by a cemetery to cheer him up.

"Pisspoor prototypes!" he cried happily when we arrived.

"Whatcha gonna do now, Mr 'Nuclear Engineer 1964-2003'?" he would demand, kicking over the tombstone. Then he would move to the next one. "Hm, Louis Pasteur ... I'll bet curing typhoid fever won't save you from this, you now-worthless dead fuck!"

It's good to see him happy again.
Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

LOBO faced his court martial with rather uncharacteristic dignity.

"So let me get this straight," says General Hamms. "In order to defend the US from a Russian invasion, you wrecked a 35 trillion dollar war vessel."

"No," says LOBO adamantly. "The superintelligent giant squid did."

"It says here you let him drive."

"I didn't have a crew. Legless Jim ran out of Martini olives, and everybody was ready to mutiny."

Gasps rippled throughout the courtroom.

General Hamms points at the court reporter. "Let the records show that the defendant --former Brigadier General LOBO-- has admitted under oath that he left the US Warship Johnson negligently out of Martini olives under his command!"

"Order! Order!" demands the Judge, banging his gavel in a feeble effort to reclaim decorum under the booing and hissing. "Mr. Curr, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," he says. "I fucking hate olives almost as much as I hate those little supremacist Cheerios. Both of them exploited the Spaghettio, and made 'em run casinos." He paused dramatically. "Can't we all just be a grey quazi tomatoe-pasta pizza topping that stays crunchy in milk?"

And so General Hamms ceremoniously tore the bars, stripes and stars away from LOBO's notoriously-itchy uniform.

Monday

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.