Babs

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

When I came in, Phoebe and Sapphire stared in simple disbelief.

"Morning ladies," I says cheerily. Setting down my Starbucks, I proceed to hang my coat, whistling.

"What the hell are you doing here on a Sunday?" asks Sapphire.

"I don't know," I smile. "Just feeling a little productive I guess."

Sniffing the air, Phoebe looks at Sapphire. "He doesn't even smell like whisky and cheap hookers."

"No ladies," I sigh. "I'm turning my life around. From here on out, I'm a brand new man."

"Is this because LOBO is gone?"

"Probably," I shrug. "At least in part. But I think my luck is changing. You know that hot new chick Babs?"

"Uh," says Sapphire, looking at Phoebe nervously. "Yes ..."

"Let me tell you," I say, gyrating my hips in the air. "That chick is a freak."

"You had sex with Babs too?" says Phoebe.

"Yes I did," I say with unabashed smugness. "I did things with that chick that--" I pause, eyebrows furrowed. Turning slowly to Phoebe, I clear out my ear with a finger. "What do you mean, 'too'?"

Phoebe looks side to side nervously. "I had sex with her on Saturday."

I look at Sapphire, who holds her hands up shrugging.

"Phoebe, I didn't know you were bisexual."

"I'm not bisexual."

Sapphire eyes her carefully. "You had sex with Babs, but you're not bisexual?"

"I mean I've gotten off during massages but that's like a mutual-masturbation thing," Phoebe explains. "But Babs just started kissing me. Hard. And the next thing you know she's between my legs, sucking me off. She's really good at it." Then, trailing off in blissful thought, she adds, "Turns out, so am I ... "

I don't know whether to scream or go jerk off in my office.

"Besides," Phoebe continues. "It doesn't count as a lesbian thing. It is alternate-reality LOBO, right?"

My jaw drops.

Sapphire looks to me, eyes narrowed, "You did use protection, right?"

Suddenly, Ethan walks in, whistling. "Wow," he grins, setting down his cappuccino to hang his coat. "You just won't believe what a fantastic morning I've had."

Rise

Predator Press

[LOBO]

As far as dimensions go, eh, I've seen better.

But there's this really cool rock here. I mean it's all weird an flat an sparkly.

Eventually, I gotta get up 'an piss. Probably should work out this whole food and shelter issue too. I wonder if this is one of those dimensions that has Cheeto dispensers.

It could happen.

Suddenly, I realize I'm on a big, flat plateau under an electrified, pastel sky. Looking down over the edge, I spy millions of naked women kneeling and praying at something up here.

Every once in a while, they send up a hot emissary.

Exhausted from the long climb, the hardbodied beauty draws up using the last of her strength. Raising her tired arms toward me, her magnificent breasts heave as she cries, "Oh, strange visitor we beseech thee; there are no males in this dimension, please bless us with your mighty blessed throbbing Hammer of Thor."

"Why?" I yell down, echoing.

"That we may grasp and fondle thy genitalia roughly," she says, collapsing to her knees, mighty thighs bulging. "And foist it into ourselves like wild and rhythmic savage animals."

"But there's this really cool rock up here," I says. "And look, you are all like really far down there. Why don't you all just come on up?"

I swear to God the chicks in this dimension can be so lazy ...

"There's a really cool rock up here," I remind them.

Kiss From a Rose

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

"I don't know what else to say," says Ethan. "We've been good friends for a while. It won't be the same without you."

"What won't be the same? Are you leaving?"

Phoebe enters the room as Ethan puts a hand on LOBO's shoulder.

"I'm not the one who is facing extermination, am I?" he says. "The bottom line is, there are well-organized squads of Girl Scouts currently being briefed in how to kill you."

"Where are you sending him?" says Phoebe. "And will we ever see him again?"

"I've already got Max, Brighta and Vetter working on that." Ethan looks at LOBO for a long moment. "Haven't you ever seen what happens when you try to get rid of this guy? I'm sending him to another dimension, I'm not sending him to fucking Jersey for Chrissake."

"Jesus Christ," says LOBO. "I'm getting kicked out of a whole dimension again?"

Phoebe crosses to the bewildered being --the simple soul so shallow, flat and infinitely glacial no motive of evil could claw any purchase-- and kissed him goodbye.

"I'm trusting you," says LOBO to Ethan and Phoebe. "Well, I'm trusting Ethan more. I've known Phoebe has been wanting to get into my pants for a long time now."

Phoebe, with a fistful of LOBO's hair, glared menacingly.



***

Into The Vortex LOBO went.

"God I can't believe he fell for that," says Ethan, elated. Cutting the tip a fine cigar he says, "LOBO will be very happy where I sent him."

Phoebe, alarmed, says, "Wait a minute. Using a hyperdimensional vortex, you sent LOBO to another universe?"

"Yes," replies Ethan. "Hyperdimensional Vortexes aren't cheap you know--"

"Well, LOBO is maybe in another dimension," says Phoebe as she waves away the smoke, "But you got something back in return ..."

Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me ....

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Jimmy Orlando, at the podium, continued. "Have any of you noticed that you have been to three funerals for LOBO in six months, and yet he's still here?"

Everyone except LOBO raised their hands.

The conference room lit up with a 3-D hologram of what was apparently our own beloved Milky Way galaxy.

“Cool!” breathed LOBO.

“Yes,” agreed Jimmy Orlando. “What you see now, highlighted in green, is our solar system.” A holographic arrow circled the area. “And here we see,” as another arrow drew our attention, “the recently renamed 'Steve Loves Amanda XOX' galaxy.”

“Slax,” volunteers LOBO helpfully.

“Yes,” Jimmy Orlando agrees again. “In 1997, this galaxy was commonly known as 12Xc25b. But in 1998, the International Star Registry renamed this galaxy, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’.”

“So?”

“Well, unfortunately, in the native language of the current occupants, ‘Steve Loves Amanda XOX’ translates to 'Your mother is a douchebag-chuggin’ bitch so ugly she has to fake orgasms while masturbating'. In response, they have launched a devious plan: to manufacture millions of LOBOs, so there are millions of mindless subscribers overpaying for absolutely nothing whatsoever … the funds for which are to be filtered exclusively to boisterous and baseless propaganda and commercials designed to increase public interest and sympathy here on Earth. They call it: Plan Comcast.”

“Those bastards,” says Phoebe.

"We considered just renaming the thing, but that would've just made us change a lot of maps and astrological readings. So as of now, there is a worldwide call for LOBOcide. Insanely brutal, ruthless and excessive force has been authorized at the highest level of every government of the face of the Earth."

“Is that moral?” asked Phoebe.

“Is that legal?” asked Sapphire.

“Is there a bounty?” I asked.

“Is there going to be food at this thing?” asked LOBO. “At least bagels or something? I’m starving. Are we out of bagels? Are there any of those plastic jellys left? It's too cold in here and this coffee sucks, I might add. Can you turn on those cool graphics again?”

“The fact is,” sighs Jimmy Orlando, “it’s a Class-X Felony not to kill them.”

“This means you won’t turn on those cool graphics again, doesn’t it?” LOBO complains. “What time is break scheduled for? I have to use ‘The Head’, if you catch my drift—“

“Ooooh,” says Sapphire, reaching for her shotgun. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time—“

BLAM

My ears are ringing.

LOBO, missing the back of his head, slumped to the ground. I followed it closely looking down Sapphire’s barrel.

“You asshole!,” says Sapphire to me. “You didn’t even bring a gun. That kill was mine--"

“Take it outside, dammit!” yells Jimmy, on the ground, fingers in his ears. “Just look at this mess!”

“Hey, how do we know which one’s the original?” I ask.

"Ethan suspects he already has the original in custody," replies Jimmy Orlando. "The suspect has already pounced Anna Nicole Smith, but the Pork Chop Test is still pending." Jimmy Orlando stands, seeing a chunk of bloody brain tissue on his lapel. "You're paying for my dry cleaning, asshole!"

I barely hear. With Sapphire’s shotgun, I’m headed out into the LOBO-infested world.

… and I’m in a murderous mood.

Smooth

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Well, it was weird.

After Decontamination, we were led out a back door where a skyscraper seemed to leap out of the geography like a bizarre dimensional accident.

I assure you, aside from the bar we entered by, there was nothing remarkable in this area; no houses, nothing save a quarry and a Starbucks.

Jimmy Orlando met us at the entrance, boldly emblazoned:

THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
BUT THE LATTER IS INFINITELY EASIER TO AIM
My first question was: "JususfuckingChristhowdoplanesnotcrashintothis thingandomyGoddoesTheGovernment knowaboutthisweareinsuchdeepshitweareinfuckindeepshitweareindeepshit!!!"

"Relax baby," smiles Jimmy. "They're all renters."

We Don't Normally Smell Like This, Ma'am

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.

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.