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.”