Inhuman Resources

Predator Press

[Mr. Insanity]

Dr. Keller released me after only a few days, and Ethan had Rosalyn Gates --Hawly Enterprises' Human Resources Director-- pick me up from Bertram.

I immediately think I'm getting fired. Could be for anything from the bad PR, being "institutionalized", to increasing insurance liability.

But if I'm getting fired, I'm getting fired behind the wheel, dammit. Besides, Rosalyn drives a spiff new Mustang I want to check out.

Reluctantly, she gets into the passenger side of her own car, and I peel out of the hospital parking lot.


***

Rosalyn looks different in natural light. A fit and attractive woman in maybe her early forties, she's always smiling and friendly, but now I see how that has worn on her over the years: she looks like a woman who is psychotically sick to death of smiling and being friendly.

An uncomfortable silence ensues.

"What's this all about?" I finally ask, pushing 110 on I-65.

"Well, we received some rather alarming complaints from you," she grins readily, "and wanted to discuss them."

"That slut Babs has to go," I says. "Period."

"But there is no basis for her termination," beams Rosalyn. "In fact, she has been nothing but an exemplary employee."

"No basis?" I demand. "She's slept with 45% of the entire staff!"

My Blackberry tones, and I twist it on my belt so I can read the screen.

"Make that 49%," I says.

"Well, I certainly understand your concern," soothes Rosalyn in her well-rehearsed optimism. "But Mr Hawly has considered Sexual Harassment a frivolous matter ever since he started sleeping with Phoebe this August."

"I'm telling you, this bitch is trouble with a capital ... What!?!"

Police sirens. They're right behind me.

Fuck.

"You got any pens?" I demand.

"What?" smiles Rosalyn.

"Peeeeennnnzzzzz!" I repeat slowly, like I'm talking to a retard.

"Well, yes--"

"Throw them out the window."

She pauses, charmingly bewildered.

"Now!" I command, slowing to pull over.


***

I watch the cop saunter up slowly, thumbs in belt, through the rearview. He's already filling out the rather spectacular speeding ticket. I roll down the window as he approaches.

"Any idea why I pulled you over there Richard Petty?" he says condescendingly.

"No idea whatsoever, Officer," I says, picking my nose ferociously.

"I have you on radar doing over 110 in a 65 mile per hou--"

The cop freezes momentarily as he sees my finger working an emerald mine, wiping the nuggets on the steering wheel.

After a second of thought, he closes the small tablet. "So I'm giving you a verbal warning," he says.

"Thanks," I says.

Rosalyn pukes cheerfully on her own floorboard as we peel out again ...

Shadows of the Season

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Nobody suspects Babs is the scorned mistress of Kringle --introduced in the June 5 2006 blog entry titled "Writing on Fire"-- because nobody reads this blog now.

I can't warn Ethan, Phoebe, Sapphire or the Jaycees for two reasons: The first is I'm trapped in another dimension, asshole. The second is that despite my staggering brainiosity, my noggin is completely vacant of that little fact as well.

... I'm certainly not reading this sophomoric, banal tripe ...

***
As the naked women carry me down the mountain, a great feast is being prepared. And all the way, I'm peppered with questions like, "How was your day?" and "Do you think she's pretty?" and "Do I look fat naked?"

A cute blonde named Zima finally pries the television remote from my hands and asks, "What's life like in that," she makes quote signs with her hot, naked fingers, "other dimension?"

"Well, not having hot naked horny women around climbing mountains and cooking and stuff is pretty damn weird," I says. "And they have this paste over there they make out of teeth. They call it toothpaste--"

"What's that for?" asks Zima.

"I don't know," I says, trailing off.

***
A few minutes later Zima's still saying stuff, but now other hot, naked women have brought food under a covered tray. I'm sitting at the head of a long table, Zima to my right. There are bowls of melted butter and plates, but no eating utensils whatsoever.

"--and after the Great Feast," Zima continues, "then we have the Great Orgy." She pauses as she looks at me. "No kissing though."

"Great Feast?" I says. "What are we having?"

"Giant Lobster," she proclaims.

The servers uncover the tray, and I swear on my evil twin brother's eyes there was a red bug under there, like two feet long.

Frozen in abject horror, I stare down the length of the table and see endless hot, naked women hungrily tearing apart and devouring gigantic red bugs.

I screamed.

A lot.

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."