Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Well, I'm not dead. But thanks for your concern everybody.
[assholes]
I'm now reduced to blogging in a precarious coma. It's not so bad really ... very restful. 'Cept this guy in the next room keeps loudly proclaiming how nice some babe's ass is, and waxing on and on an on about her tits.
Hey, they did take me to a hospital, right ... ?!
Monday
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I drifted in an out of the Sodium Pentathol fog for what seemed like an inky black eternity.
Truth Serum is great stuff.
"Oh pleeeeeeeassee," I beg.
"Screw you," says Phoebe, tossing micro cassettes into a tiny waste bucket. "After eight doses, all I've got is two-and-a-half hours of tape tellin' me I've got a great ass and nice tits!"
"I promise I'll confess this time."
"Okay."
[LOBO]
I drifted in an out of the Sodium Pentathol fog for what seemed like an inky black eternity.
Truth Serum is great stuff.
"Oh pleeeeeeeassee," I beg.
"Screw you," says Phoebe, tossing micro cassettes into a tiny waste bucket. "After eight doses, all I've got is two-and-a-half hours of tape tellin' me I've got a great ass and nice tits!"
"I promise I'll confess this time."
"Okay."
Sunday
A TRAITOR AFOOTLESS
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When Ethan calls a Predator Press staff meeting, you show up.
So we’re all milling about in this hooky-spooky mansion he bought. Knowing of my ghost phobia, he thinks it’s really funny to watch me squirm.
When the doorbell rings, I get a little jittery. Having known Ethan for some eight years, I know him well enough to expect his usual arrival on the rooftop helicopter pad.
Whoever was requesting entrance was definitely not on the guest list.
*****
I peeked over Mr. Insanity’s shoulder as he got the door, and found myself splashing holy water on a curvy, attractive, professionally-dressed, middle-age blonde with a camera crew in tow.
"The Power of Christ Compels You!" I says.
“Mr. Curr,” she says politely. “I’m Dayle Hinman, from Court TV's 'Body of Evidence'. I’m here to investigate a murder.”
“Those Doublemint Twins were double-agent robot zombies that had it coming,” I says, abruptly throwing Mr. Insanity at her feet as I bolt for the back door. "It was an issue of National Security—“
“Mr. Curr,” she interrupts. “I’m here to investigate the murder of Legless Jim.”
“Oh,” I says. “Please come in.”
“Ah Christ” says Jim, rollin his eyes.
“Mrs. Hinman,” says a cameraman. “We’re ready to roll. Can you give us a hand and plug us in?”
“Sure,” says Dayle Hinman as she absently grabs the electric plug, already eyeing her prime suspect.
“Just don’t plug it in before we get out of this puddle of holy water—“
KAPOW!!!
Dayle Hinman slowly turned to see her camera crew burst into flames, melt into skeletons, and then the skeletons crumble to ashes.
”Oh shit!” she says.
*****
We all sat in the library, solemn and quiet as I nervously fiddled with a candlestick in front of the fireplace. Dayle Hinman returned from “investigating” about six Pabst Blue Ribbons, “twisting up a fatty” from what appeared to be Mr. Insanity’s stash.
“Why the long faces?” she slurred, dropping a whole box of Twinkies. “You people look like somebody died or something.” Then she staggered to the left an fell loudly on the bear skin rug.
“Fuck this,” says Jim. “We’ve been here for an hour. Ethan’s not coming.”
“Not so fast,” says Ethan. Removing the lampshade from his head, he revealed a deer stalker hat, a trench coat, and a long, curvy pipe. “I have called you all here today because I have determined that one of you is a cold-blooded murderer.”
We all gasp.
“Well it wasn’t me," says Hinman, chopping up a line from what appeared to be Beautiful White Stallion’s stash on a small mirror. She snorts loudly, and then eyes Ethan like a predator. “Hey, you’re kinda cute.”
“How the fuck does he do that?” I whisper aloud.
“Solve the mystery?” asks Phoebe.
“No, just sneak in on us like that.” I replied.
Ethan continued. “I have made plaster casts of the tire tracks I found at the crime scene.” He puts heavy clay molds baring paralleled zigzag impressions --presumably tire treads-- on the table. “Do you know what this means?” he asks the group, puffing stoically on his pipe.
He must’ve mistook me popping the bubbles for volunteering an answer.
“Yes LOBO?”
“Uh,” I fumbled. “We can figure out which car was at the scene by tiny irregularities in the tire treads?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot. It means when we find the person who is wearing tire treads instead of shoes, we’ve got our man.”
“Oooooohhh,” we all breathed in understanding.
“Legless Jim!” says Ethan. “If in fact that is your real name, where were you on the night of the murder?”
“Uh,” he says, squirming. “I was bartending on the USS Johnson, on the Fiesta Deck.”
“Just as I thought,” says Ethan. "The ship where all hands –excluding LOBO—were killed in action.”
“You call that ‘action’?” says Jim. “It was a disco blarin’ sausage fest—“
“Answer yes or no please,” interrupted Ethan. “And Mrs. Hinman, would you please put your shirt back on?”
“Yes,” says Jim.
“Sure sugar lips,” says Hinman, spinning her bra in her fingertips. “I could love a man that tells me what he likes …”
“So you have no alibi,” says Ethan to Jim, all serious.
“All those men aren’t dead, they’re AWOL in San Fransisco!”
“A likely story,” says Ethan, grabbin Jims shoe. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Exhibit A!” Dramatically, the bottom of Jim’s shoe were tire treads: they read
Goodyear Steel Belted
We all gasped again.
“That doesn’t prove anything!” says Jim.
“No,” says Ethan. “But how do you explain this?” It was a picture of a paper plate with red stains all over it.
“I was eating hot dogs!” exclaims Jim. “That’s ketchup!”
“Ketchup on hot dogs?” says Phoebe. “Blech!”
“You disgusting bigot!” I says.
Without Brad Pitt’s legs, Legless Jim’s movements were certainly inhibited. Still, he swung himself onto his wheelchair with startling quickness. “You’ll never take me alive!” he declared as he wheeled out of the room.
“Oh yeah?” slurs Dayle, reaching for her purse. Pulling out her police-issue 9mm and sprawling expired condoms everywhere, she promptly shot Mr Insanity.
“Why did you shoot Mr Insanity?” demanded Sapphire.
“Who?” asked Hinman, passing out cold. "Oh yeah ... tell him his pot sucks."
*****
Ethan and I watched as Jim wheeled out of the library.
“Running away will only make things worse for yourself!” said Ethan.
“Yeah? Well screw you!” says Jim, fumbling with the doorknob. He wheeled backward to open the door. “I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids!” Then he wheeled out, awkwardly pulling the door closed behind him.
“He’s getting away!” I says.
“I’ll chase him down in the helicopter,” says Ethan.
“Alright. I’ll get the Corvette,” I says.
“You’re not touching my Corvette,” says Ethan.
“Aw pleeeasse?” I beg. “This is important!”
He tosses me the keys. “You better not get a single scratch on her!”
“I promise,” says me.
We ran out of the library and down the hall, passing Jim on the way. Ethan ran upstairs to the helicopter pad, and I downstairs to the garage. I revved the engines for like twenty minutes waiting for Jim to get himself downstairs and out the front door, and when he was finally out of the house I slammed on the gas, screeching rubber all the way into the oak tree in the front yard.
*****
I woke in the hospital two weeks later.
Security was thick.
“He got away?” I asked Phoebe who was waiting at bedside. She was pouring a bottle of liquid clearly labeled Sodium Pentathol into my IV drip. It had a really badassed skull and crossbones on it, like the tattoo I wanted to get.
“Yes,” she says.
“Well, I doubt all this security is necessary … I doubt Jim would ever come back.”
She looked at me, bewildered. “The security isn’t for Jim ... Ethan and Dayle Hinman are due back from Aruba this afternoon, and he’s really pissed you wrecked his Corvette.”
"Serves him right. He should know better." I says through the bandages. "You know when you really think about this, it's all his fault really."
Phoebe sighed, resigned. Flipping on her tape recorder, she proceeded.
"So why exactly did you kill Mr Insanity, those poor camera men, and then go kick all those puppies?"
[LOBO]
When Ethan calls a Predator Press staff meeting, you show up.
So we’re all milling about in this hooky-spooky mansion he bought. Knowing of my ghost phobia, he thinks it’s really funny to watch me squirm.
When the doorbell rings, I get a little jittery. Having known Ethan for some eight years, I know him well enough to expect his usual arrival on the rooftop helicopter pad.
Whoever was requesting entrance was definitely not on the guest list.
I peeked over Mr. Insanity’s shoulder as he got the door, and found myself splashing holy water on a curvy, attractive, professionally-dressed, middle-age blonde with a camera crew in tow.
"The Power of Christ Compels You!" I says.
“Mr. Curr,” she says politely. “I’m Dayle Hinman, from Court TV's 'Body of Evidence'. I’m here to investigate a murder.”
“Those Doublemint Twins were double-agent robot zombies that had it coming,” I says, abruptly throwing Mr. Insanity at her feet as I bolt for the back door. "It was an issue of National Security—“
“Mr. Curr,” she interrupts. “I’m here to investigate the murder of Legless Jim.”
“Oh,” I says. “Please come in.”
“Ah Christ” says Jim, rollin his eyes.
“Mrs. Hinman,” says a cameraman. “We’re ready to roll. Can you give us a hand and plug us in?”
“Sure,” says Dayle Hinman as she absently grabs the electric plug, already eyeing her prime suspect.
“Just don’t plug it in before we get out of this puddle of holy water—“
KAPOW!!!
Dayle Hinman slowly turned to see her camera crew burst into flames, melt into skeletons, and then the skeletons crumble to ashes.
”Oh shit!” she says.
We all sat in the library, solemn and quiet as I nervously fiddled with a candlestick in front of the fireplace. Dayle Hinman returned from “investigating” about six Pabst Blue Ribbons, “twisting up a fatty” from what appeared to be Mr. Insanity’s stash.
“Why the long faces?” she slurred, dropping a whole box of Twinkies. “You people look like somebody died or something.” Then she staggered to the left an fell loudly on the bear skin rug.
“Fuck this,” says Jim. “We’ve been here for an hour. Ethan’s not coming.”
“Not so fast,” says Ethan. Removing the lampshade from his head, he revealed a deer stalker hat, a trench coat, and a long, curvy pipe. “I have called you all here today because I have determined that one of you is a cold-blooded murderer.”
We all gasp.
“Well it wasn’t me," says Hinman, chopping up a line from what appeared to be Beautiful White Stallion’s stash on a small mirror. She snorts loudly, and then eyes Ethan like a predator. “Hey, you’re kinda cute.”
“How the fuck does he do that?” I whisper aloud.
“Solve the mystery?” asks Phoebe.
“No, just sneak in on us like that.” I replied.
Ethan continued. “I have made plaster casts of the tire tracks I found at the crime scene.” He puts heavy clay molds baring paralleled zigzag impressions --presumably tire treads-- on the table. “Do you know what this means?” he asks the group, puffing stoically on his pipe.
He must’ve mistook me popping the bubbles for volunteering an answer.
“Yes LOBO?”
“Uh,” I fumbled. “We can figure out which car was at the scene by tiny irregularities in the tire treads?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot. It means when we find the person who is wearing tire treads instead of shoes, we’ve got our man.”
“Oooooohhh,” we all breathed in understanding.
“Legless Jim!” says Ethan. “If in fact that is your real name, where were you on the night of the murder?”
“Uh,” he says, squirming. “I was bartending on the USS Johnson, on the Fiesta Deck.”
“Just as I thought,” says Ethan. "The ship where all hands –excluding LOBO—were killed in action.”
“You call that ‘action’?” says Jim. “It was a disco blarin’ sausage fest—“
“Answer yes or no please,” interrupted Ethan. “And Mrs. Hinman, would you please put your shirt back on?”
“Yes,” says Jim.
“Sure sugar lips,” says Hinman, spinning her bra in her fingertips. “I could love a man that tells me what he likes …”
“So you have no alibi,” says Ethan to Jim, all serious.
“All those men aren’t dead, they’re AWOL in San Fransisco!”
“A likely story,” says Ethan, grabbin Jims shoe. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Exhibit A!” Dramatically, the bottom of Jim’s shoe were tire treads: they read
We all gasped again.
“That doesn’t prove anything!” says Jim.
“No,” says Ethan. “But how do you explain this?” It was a picture of a paper plate with red stains all over it.
“I was eating hot dogs!” exclaims Jim. “That’s ketchup!”
“Ketchup on hot dogs?” says Phoebe. “Blech!”
“You disgusting bigot!” I says.
Without Brad Pitt’s legs, Legless Jim’s movements were certainly inhibited. Still, he swung himself onto his wheelchair with startling quickness. “You’ll never take me alive!” he declared as he wheeled out of the room.
“Oh yeah?” slurs Dayle, reaching for her purse. Pulling out her police-issue 9mm and sprawling expired condoms everywhere, she promptly shot Mr Insanity.
“Why did you shoot Mr Insanity?” demanded Sapphire.
“Who?” asked Hinman, passing out cold. "Oh yeah ... tell him his pot sucks."
Ethan and I watched as Jim wheeled out of the library.
“Running away will only make things worse for yourself!” said Ethan.
“Yeah? Well screw you!” says Jim, fumbling with the doorknob. He wheeled backward to open the door. “I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids!” Then he wheeled out, awkwardly pulling the door closed behind him.
“He’s getting away!” I says.
“I’ll chase him down in the helicopter,” says Ethan.
“Alright. I’ll get the Corvette,” I says.
“You’re not touching my Corvette,” says Ethan.
“Aw pleeeasse?” I beg. “This is important!”
He tosses me the keys. “You better not get a single scratch on her!”
“I promise,” says me.
We ran out of the library and down the hall, passing Jim on the way. Ethan ran upstairs to the helicopter pad, and I downstairs to the garage. I revved the engines for like twenty minutes waiting for Jim to get himself downstairs and out the front door, and when he was finally out of the house I slammed on the gas, screeching rubber all the way into the oak tree in the front yard.
I woke in the hospital two weeks later.
Security was thick.
“He got away?” I asked Phoebe who was waiting at bedside. She was pouring a bottle of liquid clearly labeled Sodium Pentathol into my IV drip. It had a really badassed skull and crossbones on it, like the tattoo I wanted to get.
“Yes,” she says.
“Well, I doubt all this security is necessary … I doubt Jim would ever come back.”
She looked at me, bewildered. “The security isn’t for Jim ... Ethan and Dayle Hinman are due back from Aruba this afternoon, and he’s really pissed you wrecked his Corvette.”
"Serves him right. He should know better." I says through the bandages. "You know when you really think about this, it's all his fault really."
Phoebe sighed, resigned. Flipping on her tape recorder, she proceeded.
"So why exactly did you kill Mr Insanity, those poor camera men, and then go kick all those puppies?"
Saturday
Brahe's Bathtub
Predator Press
[LOBO]
There are a lot of drawbacks to warring with the Fat Man; the rescue took several days of blurry high adventure, furious car chases, international espionage, naked chicks, fallen political figures, mustard stains, explosions, intrigue ...
... all infinitely boring, bland, and completely unblogable.
Plus I hadda explain it all to my boss.
Now, this new boss has heard of me an Dash’s little “circumstance”, so he tends to humor me. But when I explained that I missed work ‘cuz I was fighting Santa, Alien Zombies, Elven Ninjas, and the Superintelligent Giant Squid with only a hot android after commandeering an intergalactic starship, his incredulousness was palpable despite his valiant efforts.
Give that guy an Emmy.
An then I find out that in my absence, my band Mythic Priapism has split up. Seems I missed the signing party with RKO Records, the guys who were going to put out our album ‘Jaws of Death’ --a collection of William Shatner cover tunes done to an orchestra of bagpipes (and maybe some occasional flatulence)— so the whole studio was a crime scene. Having taken offense, the first-string achapello singers boldly sang in A minor instead of C, inciting the entire violin section to revolt in a fiery bloodbath of purfling-laden death.
Plus this chick I’m seeing totally freaked out while I was gone for no reason. (By “seeing” I mean watchin her through these binoculars and following her to and from work and malls and doctor appointments and basically anywhere her preacher husband wasn’t. Or anyplace excluded in the TRO I got administrated yesterday while I was in the tree looking down in her window.) What a fuckin bitch.
Spooked by all these crazy people acting weird, I decide to drive to this job interview. It’s an hour and a half away, and in a major city. The “interview” is at 8:00 am.
To avoid the traffic, I get there at six.
Two hours of driving and the “Banquet Hall” isn’t open yet.
So for like three-and-a-half hours, I can’t piss.
***
Cap'n Crew-Cut shows up early and hits the ground runnin … he’s obviously an ex cop; there with 48 other “applicants”, he an his buddy were running the show with great authority.
The “Banquet Hall” had no coffee, not even water.
The faded itinerary handout says we’re scheduled for a break at 10:15. Over two hours away.
He doesn’t introduce himself, he just goes right into his “pitch”. Without even a microphone, Cap'n Crew-Cut goes into the "anyone there not taking the process seriously need never apply again" speech.
It annoys him to waste the time of other applicants.
He says they’re going to set up a nail test. Not a piss test, or a hair test, a nail test. Reputedly infallible within 90 days. Now, I watch a lot of Forensic Files and Unsolved Mysteries … the last thing I want is my DNA bein foisted all over Creation ta every asshole that requests it; it might prove that I’m linked to those two hot twins I blogged about killin, before. Right?
So it's 9:15 now, and I gotta pee … I'm still over and hour out from the break. Plus I gotta superglue on the $850 fingernails from that Guatemalan Viceroy Ethan sold me. I slip out the back quietly and respectfully, not distracting anyone from the speaker. And well rehearsed, I'm gone for like 90 seconds.
I get back to the “Orientation”, and a guy intercepts me before I can open the door to the "Banquet Hall", extending my driver’s license and application back to me.
“We won’t be considering your application today,” he says. The condescending fuck doesn’t even look at me as he hands me my shit.
This is a company that places within the top ten of Forbe's List.
… And I wouldn’t be allowed to pee?
[LOBO]
There are a lot of drawbacks to warring with the Fat Man; the rescue took several days of blurry high adventure, furious car chases, international espionage, naked chicks, fallen political figures, mustard stains, explosions, intrigue ...
... all infinitely boring, bland, and completely unblogable.
Plus I hadda explain it all to my boss.
Now, this new boss has heard of me an Dash’s little “circumstance”, so he tends to humor me. But when I explained that I missed work ‘cuz I was fighting Santa, Alien Zombies, Elven Ninjas, and the Superintelligent Giant Squid with only a hot android after commandeering an intergalactic starship, his incredulousness was palpable despite his valiant efforts.
Give that guy an Emmy.
An then I find out that in my absence, my band Mythic Priapism has split up. Seems I missed the signing party with RKO Records, the guys who were going to put out our album ‘Jaws of Death’ --a collection of William Shatner cover tunes done to an orchestra of bagpipes (and maybe some occasional flatulence)— so the whole studio was a crime scene. Having taken offense, the first-string achapello singers boldly sang in A minor instead of C, inciting the entire violin section to revolt in a fiery bloodbath of purfling-laden death.
Plus this chick I’m seeing totally freaked out while I was gone for no reason. (By “seeing” I mean watchin her through these binoculars and following her to and from work and malls and doctor appointments and basically anywhere her preacher husband wasn’t. Or anyplace excluded in the TRO I got administrated yesterday while I was in the tree looking down in her window.) What a fuckin bitch.
Spooked by all these crazy people acting weird, I decide to drive to this job interview. It’s an hour and a half away, and in a major city. The “interview” is at 8:00 am.
To avoid the traffic, I get there at six.
Two hours of driving and the “Banquet Hall” isn’t open yet.
So for like three-and-a-half hours, I can’t piss.
Cap'n Crew-Cut shows up early and hits the ground runnin … he’s obviously an ex cop; there with 48 other “applicants”, he an his buddy were running the show with great authority.
The “Banquet Hall” had no coffee, not even water.
The faded itinerary handout says we’re scheduled for a break at 10:15. Over two hours away.
He doesn’t introduce himself, he just goes right into his “pitch”. Without even a microphone, Cap'n Crew-Cut goes into the "anyone there not taking the process seriously need never apply again" speech.
It annoys him to waste the time of other applicants.
He says they’re going to set up a nail test. Not a piss test, or a hair test, a nail test. Reputedly infallible within 90 days. Now, I watch a lot of Forensic Files and Unsolved Mysteries … the last thing I want is my DNA bein foisted all over Creation ta every asshole that requests it; it might prove that I’m linked to those two hot twins I blogged about killin, before. Right?
So it's 9:15 now, and I gotta pee … I'm still over and hour out from the break. Plus I gotta superglue on the $850 fingernails from that Guatemalan Viceroy Ethan sold me. I slip out the back quietly and respectfully, not distracting anyone from the speaker. And well rehearsed, I'm gone for like 90 seconds.
I get back to the “Orientation”, and a guy intercepts me before I can open the door to the "Banquet Hall", extending my driver’s license and application back to me.
“We won’t be considering your application today,” he says. The condescending fuck doesn’t even look at me as he hands me my shit.
This is a company that places within the top ten of Forbe's List.
… And I wouldn’t be allowed to pee?
Thursday
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.”
[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.”
Friday
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.
[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:
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.
[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.
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LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g...
