Predator Press
[Mr. I]
All that really matters is the fast flow of information, and the effectiveness of the response.
On the bridge of the mighty war vessel LOBONIA, the darkly-clad figure kneeled in front of the bridge's viewscreen, inhaling, exhaling, for what seems an eternity.
Suddenly he stands, totters, and collapses like a sack of sand.
The crew of the bridge lights up with laughter as Sith Lord LOBO slowly "comes to."
"Told you!" titters Navigator LOBO.
"Did you see the look on his face?" bursts Communications LOBO.
"Omigod, that was awesome," says Sith Lord LOBO. Staggering to his feet and laughing, Sith Lord LOBO grabs a clipboard and beats Medical LOBO to a one-celled organism that owes a shit-ton of student loans.
"You killed Medical LOBO for not recommending against us playing a prank on you?" asks a suddenly serious Engineer LOBO.
"No," says Sith Lord LOBO. "I killed him for inoculating me against Diphtheria. I fucking hate needles."
Suddenly everything vanishes. POOF!
A blinding square of light noisily appears.
"LOBO!" demands a megaphoned voice from outside the Holo-Trailer.
"What?" says LOBO, suddenly aware that he's in a Holo-Trailer.
The voice says, "You've been officially captured by Hawly Enterprises." The disembodied static punctuates his instructions. "And we are fully authorized to blow your nuts off in order to take you without incident."
"I'm cool," I says, raising my hands.
Friday
A Simple Blue Dot
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
****
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
Sunday
Jesus Just Left Chicago
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The quote that I remember from September Eleventh was that we had suffered a "Failure of Imagination."
So how --years after that-- did Katrina escape the "Mind's Eye" under our watchful vigil? How could a new tragedy, not even an act of war, be handled even worse?
And even if you give the government a pass on 9/11, how can people --not in some third world country like France but in Amerika-- receive no appropriate suffrage? How can Americans have no electricity, plumbing, or clean water?
And where the hell is Sally Struthers on this?
Hm?
[LOBO]
The quote that I remember from September Eleventh was that we had suffered a "Failure of Imagination."
So how --years after that-- did Katrina escape the "Mind's Eye" under our watchful vigil? How could a new tragedy, not even an act of war, be handled even worse?
And even if you give the government a pass on 9/11, how can people --not in some third world country like France but in Amerika-- receive no appropriate suffrage? How can Americans have no electricity, plumbing, or clean water?
And where the hell is Sally Struthers on this?
Hm?
Friday
You Deserve a Refund
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As a blogger, I'm enjoying the same crazy rockstar life as any other blogger does. And trust me, if you are among the lucky few to know someone else that blogs, ask them when the last time they were being blown by six chicks in a limousine absolutely dusty with poppy derivatives: if it's over two weeks, I'll manage the dumb ass myself for a while. You know, make it a contest or something.
It's really hard to blog when hot chicks are always throwing themselves on the hood of my car as I go about my otherwise enriched, healthy, robust and fulfilling life. And christ the accounting hassles! Every goddamned day, it's "I need a copy of your 1967 F-16 Form," and "IRS Audit," and "You bought a what?!?". I swear to god I think I'd like to just liquid nitrogen the whole Fiscal Unit, and chip little pieces off of the bastards until they're just a big melting slushy gob of useless DNA.
So, on the bright side, Predator Press will likely be hiring soon.
It's tough being this ragingly successful! Just ask Paris Hilton. Poor thing ... "overworked and drinking on an empty stomach", she gets a DUI. A DUI! She was 'overworked', it seems, making fun of the middle class.
Us.
That sucks. If I were you, I'd be pissed; I was always hoping Charlize Theron would pop up on "Simple Life" and beat that skinny, polluted flake with a tire iron. Well, after a decent lesbian kiss anyways.
The networks need this to happen. They are going to have a hell of a time recouping from this Crocodile Dundee debacle aka Steve Irwin. By the way, hello, America doesn't give a shit about animals; we were just preoccupied at The Deli, waiting with bated breath for a nice cut of meat while TIVOing a new tragedy. We need a new Mike Tyson, JonBenet, O.J. Simpson for Chrissake!
We create these monsters. And voting with our wallets, we pay them, knowing full well we want nothing more than a good fucking show.
So who is the monster?
I don't really care if you watch, frankly. But at least take Paris Hilton and Johnny Knoxsville and sterilize these people before we lose two centuries of Evolution [Or 6.99999 years of Creation: You go God Squad!].
In the meantime, all you hot brunettes and athletic, nubile blondes should not badger me for my phone number while I'm picking up those bagloads of cash on Wall Street anymore. It's almost harassment really. MY number, as always, is "1". It's easy to memorize because it looks so much like the letter "I", which coincidentally is my favorite letter ...
[LOBO]
As a blogger, I'm enjoying the same crazy rockstar life as any other blogger does. And trust me, if you are among the lucky few to know someone else that blogs, ask them when the last time they were being blown by six chicks in a limousine absolutely dusty with poppy derivatives: if it's over two weeks, I'll manage the dumb ass myself for a while. You know, make it a contest or something.
It's really hard to blog when hot chicks are always throwing themselves on the hood of my car as I go about my otherwise enriched, healthy, robust and fulfilling life. And christ the accounting hassles! Every goddamned day, it's "I need a copy of your 1967 F-16 Form," and "IRS Audit," and "You bought a what?!?". I swear to god I think I'd like to just liquid nitrogen the whole Fiscal Unit, and chip little pieces off of the bastards until they're just a big melting slushy gob of useless DNA.
So, on the bright side, Predator Press will likely be hiring soon.
It's tough being this ragingly successful! Just ask Paris Hilton. Poor thing ... "overworked and drinking on an empty stomach", she gets a DUI. A DUI! She was 'overworked', it seems, making fun of the middle class.
Us.
That sucks. If I were you, I'd be pissed; I was always hoping Charlize Theron would pop up on "Simple Life" and beat that skinny, polluted flake with a tire iron. Well, after a decent lesbian kiss anyways.
The networks need this to happen. They are going to have a hell of a time recouping from this Crocodile Dundee debacle aka Steve Irwin. By the way, hello, America doesn't give a shit about animals; we were just preoccupied at The Deli, waiting with bated breath for a nice cut of meat while TIVOing a new tragedy. We need a new Mike Tyson, JonBenet, O.J. Simpson for Chrissake!
We create these monsters. And voting with our wallets, we pay them, knowing full well we want nothing more than a good fucking show.
So who is the monster?
I don't really care if you watch, frankly. But at least take Paris Hilton and Johnny Knoxsville and sterilize these people before we lose two centuries of Evolution [Or 6.99999 years of Creation: You go God Squad!].
In the meantime, all you hot brunettes and athletic, nubile blondes should not badger me for my phone number while I'm picking up those bagloads of cash on Wall Street anymore. It's almost harassment really. MY number, as always, is "1". It's easy to memorize because it looks so much like the letter "I", which coincidentally is my favorite letter ...
Wednesday
A Tale of Two Phoebes
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
[Mr. I]
Despite the hellish mischief it played on the electronics, Kringle could have been taken directly to The Rift; he had pilots at his disposal that could fly right through a sizable house blindfolded. But this was a calculated form of anti-meditation; he wanted to build his fury further on the rigors of the mountain.
While only halfway, he was beaten and bruised and exhausted. But never once did he regret his decision to face this mountain alone and without aid. One torn and calloused hand after another, he hauled himself up in slow, grim determination. Now a mighty and hardbodied physical specimen, he liked the challenge.
Catching his breath on a narrow crag, he marveled at his own hands. The things they could do. Build. Accomplish. Soil and rocky dust caked them to the point that they were almost chalky --indeed, he was so drenched of the harsh earth, it would stick no more. "The mortar of life" was an organic and primal source of guilty mortal pleasure.
And the the climb itself, albeit slow, was rhythmic and therapeutic; wide and powerful shoulders and thighs gained him meter by meter by excruciating meter. A dauntless, intrepid machine: This very mountain succumbs to my Will.
He felt as close to godlike as he ever would or could. His body was lean and hard already ... now he felt like steel. And he would certainly be putting the spurs to that hot young soon-to-be new Misses Claus tonight, oh yes. He might even make her the official new "Missus Claus" once and for all. Well if the damn bitch would stop TIVOing over his episodes of American Chopper. Or a being a Scientologist, as it were, absolutely refusing to accept Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior.
The filthy little Hellbound pagan is a good fuck though, goddamn it.
"Scraps!" he yells above into thinned, cold air.
"Scraps, we had a bargain!"
Tuesday
Smegs Quarantine
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
It was a rather pleasant experience really; it had the fleeting feeling of awaking from a long, deserved nap. I looked to Edward and Sapphire, and I could see by the look on their faces they had had the same experience.
LOBO, however, was screaming in pain. Smoke bellowed from his Levis, and the smell of burning flesh, hair and denim filled the room. Frantic, he grabbed the fire extinguisher, dousing his groin in a cloud of powder.
"OhmyGodohmyGodohMYGOD ... !" he cries. "Is it 'Stop, Drop and Roll', or is it 'Drop, Stop and--?!'"
Two guys, professionally blasé, offer buckets of ice which LOBO promptly pours down his pants. Hissing steam fills the air as the ice instantly boils and evaporates. "Goddamn it!", LOBO says, "I fucking hate when this happens!"
"Too bad sir," says an ice-bucket guy. "Next week, we're putting the entrance in the ladies bathroom of the 2007 Philadelphia Comic-Con ."
[Mr. I]
It was a rather pleasant experience really; it had the fleeting feeling of awaking from a long, deserved nap. I looked to Edward and Sapphire, and I could see by the look on their faces they had had the same experience.
LOBO, however, was screaming in pain. Smoke bellowed from his Levis, and the smell of burning flesh, hair and denim filled the room. Frantic, he grabbed the fire extinguisher, dousing his groin in a cloud of powder.
"OhmyGodohmyGodohMYGOD ... !" he cries. "Is it 'Stop, Drop and Roll', or is it 'Drop, Stop and--?!'"
Two guys, professionally blasé, offer buckets of ice which LOBO promptly pours down his pants. Hissing steam fills the air as the ice instantly boils and evaporates. "Goddamn it!", LOBO says, "I fucking hate when this happens!"
"Too bad sir," says an ice-bucket guy. "Next week, we're putting the entrance in the ladies bathroom of the 2007 Philadelphia Comic-Con ."
Monday
Hearts
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
We could still see the neon Burgermania sign from the lot we pulled into.
I thought it, and Edward said it: "Jesus Christ, this place is a dump!"
LOBO, parked to a fence, turns off the car. And as we sit looking bewildered at the ramshackle place through the car windows, he pops out and closes the door behind him. As the automatic seat belt retracts, I hear him say, "Come on guys. It's showtime."
"Why would Ethan buy a strip club?" asked Edward, peering around fearfully through the autoglass. "And in this neighborhood?"
My eyes lock on a dilapidated flashing sign. Contrary to the bleak surroundings, it blinks optimistically:
"Nipples Italy"
As Edward cautiously exits, I writhe out of the tiny car.
LOBO has already disappeared inside. A big guy in the door, obviously there to take cover charges, motions us over in a hushed, clandestine manner. "It's good to see you gentlemen," he whispers when we're in range. "We were a little concerned." While polite, his body language rushes us past him as he looks over our shoulders. "Head directly for the kitchen."
Bad music and cheap perfume explode to assault the senses as we open the doors and enter. Two thugs with earpieces see us, and while holding their ears with one hand they point to our left, muttering at nobody. My eyes follow their fingers, and LOBO is just disappearing around a corner. I spot Sapphire, naked as the day she was born, catching the eye of a security guy and casually collect her clothes.
I've never seen her naked before. And I'll be damned if Sapphire wasn't hot.
She was dressing as she descended the small stairway from the stage. The music skipped, and the MC announced another dancer.
Edward nudged me. "C'mon man. Let's move."
We passed the men's room, the ladies room; LOBO was nowhere in sight, and neither was another option in this darkened hall. Nonetheless, we kept walking down the unlit corridor until we got to a plain, unlabelled door, nondescript in every way given the environment. The hall darkened even further as Sapphire entered behind us. "Go!" she yelled.
I opened the door, and the room was electronically alive. There were, no shit, hundreds of monitors. Every inch of the club was under surveillance. Even the room they were in. A guy in weird sunglasses watches us on several monitors, sitting close to the door, says "Here they are," without looking up.
LOBO is standing in the middle of the buzzing room, looking around mystified. "Cool!" he says. "Ethan bought an arcade!"
Sapphire comes in behind us, in only heels and a scant bra of gold chains. She enters, closes the door, and holding golden chain panties, ducks to the ground to step into them through high heels. I see her swing them over her curvy figure in a slow, pornographic way.
I have a hard on the size of December.
"An arcade?" inquires Edward. "You mean you've never been here before?"
"You mean to say in an arcade in the kitchen of a kickass strip bar in a center of a crime-riddled slum?" LOBO pauses. "No. But you don't know Ethan. He really digs the working class. And you know he does a lot of charity work."
Still not looking up, sunglass guy says to no one, "Prepare for Decontamination and Biological Processing."
LOBO grabs his testicles, then everything goes white ...
[Mr. I]
We could still see the neon Burgermania sign from the lot we pulled into.
I thought it, and Edward said it: "Jesus Christ, this place is a dump!"
LOBO, parked to a fence, turns off the car. And as we sit looking bewildered at the ramshackle place through the car windows, he pops out and closes the door behind him. As the automatic seat belt retracts, I hear him say, "Come on guys. It's showtime."
"Why would Ethan buy a strip club?" asked Edward, peering around fearfully through the autoglass. "And in this neighborhood?"
My eyes lock on a dilapidated flashing sign. Contrary to the bleak surroundings, it blinks optimistically:
As Edward cautiously exits, I writhe out of the tiny car.
LOBO has already disappeared inside. A big guy in the door, obviously there to take cover charges, motions us over in a hushed, clandestine manner. "It's good to see you gentlemen," he whispers when we're in range. "We were a little concerned." While polite, his body language rushes us past him as he looks over our shoulders. "Head directly for the kitchen."
Bad music and cheap perfume explode to assault the senses as we open the doors and enter. Two thugs with earpieces see us, and while holding their ears with one hand they point to our left, muttering at nobody. My eyes follow their fingers, and LOBO is just disappearing around a corner. I spot Sapphire, naked as the day she was born, catching the eye of a security guy and casually collect her clothes.
I've never seen her naked before. And I'll be damned if Sapphire wasn't hot.
She was dressing as she descended the small stairway from the stage. The music skipped, and the MC announced another dancer.
Edward nudged me. "C'mon man. Let's move."
We passed the men's room, the ladies room; LOBO was nowhere in sight, and neither was another option in this darkened hall. Nonetheless, we kept walking down the unlit corridor until we got to a plain, unlabelled door, nondescript in every way given the environment. The hall darkened even further as Sapphire entered behind us. "Go!" she yelled.
I opened the door, and the room was electronically alive. There were, no shit, hundreds of monitors. Every inch of the club was under surveillance. Even the room they were in. A guy in weird sunglasses watches us on several monitors, sitting close to the door, says "Here they are," without looking up.
LOBO is standing in the middle of the buzzing room, looking around mystified. "Cool!" he says. "Ethan bought an arcade!"
Sapphire comes in behind us, in only heels and a scant bra of gold chains. She enters, closes the door, and holding golden chain panties, ducks to the ground to step into them through high heels. I see her swing them over her curvy figure in a slow, pornographic way.
I have a hard on the size of December.
"An arcade?" inquires Edward. "You mean you've never been here before?"
"You mean to say in an arcade in the kitchen of a kickass strip bar in a center of a crime-riddled slum?" LOBO pauses. "No. But you don't know Ethan. He really digs the working class. And you know he does a lot of charity work."
Still not looking up, sunglass guy says to no one, "Prepare for Decontamination and Biological Processing."
LOBO grabs his testicles, then everything goes white ...
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