Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Brighta had the feeling they could have found it with their eyes closed. There was a malignant, palpable taint to the very atmosphere: an ancient, insatiable evil had corrupted the very Earth under their feet for a millennia, and it's presence could be subtly felt by all.
There is nothing alive for thirty feet around it. No weeds, no trees, no algae, no bugs. Still, at a glance, this shimmering pool tucked away in a thick, ominously quiet forest offers little to otherwise alarm the senses.
"That's got to be it," says Max, dropping his map.
Vetter nods, moving closer.
"Don't touch it!" whispers Brighta.
Vetter breaks a branch from a dead tree, and approaches the pool. Slowly, he eases the tip into the surface. Max and Brighta watch in morbid fascination as, rather than penetrating the surface of a liquid, the membrane over the surface indents conically. A fine mist leaks out of the stretched surface, doubtless a sedative of some kind.
Then, with blinding speed, a shapeless brown ... thing darted from the floor of the impossibly clear pool, and ripped the stick violently from Vetter's powerful grip. Vetter staggered backward in shock.
There was no splash, no sound, not even a ripple; only an utterly horrific, fetid smell, and they stood wheezing until the small hole in the membrane --caused by the Vetter's stick-- closed seamlessly.
A Lurker.
"That's about the freakiest fucking shit I've ever seen," says Brighta. "And I once saw this stripper in Danville--"
His voice trails off as they watch the macabre scene continue to unfold.
Whatever was darting around down there stirred up the sediment, and a dark cloud filled the pool. Things drift lazily into view; a squirrel skeleton, then a grey, half-digested dear head, one eye dangling. A small human's jawbone.
Max flips his phone open. "Help Vetter with the liquid nitrogen," he says to Brighta, pressing #1 on his speed dial. "And don't get too close. That whole thing is the organism, membrane and all."
"Eeeewe--"
A dull red Cardinal floats up, flopping helplessly against the thin, clear skin. "And if you get sucked in there," Max continues, "your slowly cook in digestive stomach acids for decades. It keeps it's prey alive as long as possible."
After a few more rings, someone answers. A female.
"Oh hey Babs," says Max. "How are you doin' baby? Did you get home okay last night?"
A pause.
"Well that's great. Hey listen, will you give Ethan a message for me? Tell him we've found it. The Node should be secured in only a few hours."
Sunday
Saturday
In Your Dreams, Show No Mercy
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Santa was playing right into my hands.
My plan was to challenge him to a personal duel --one on one-- whereas I would run around like a sissy until the fat bastard was exhausted, and then kick his ass good and proper.
But Santa dismounted Slayer with surprising vitality. Flexing briefly, his red and white outfit tatters to shreds, falling to the ground.
Thanks a lot, Nordic Track.
[LOBO]
Santa was playing right into my hands.
My plan was to challenge him to a personal duel --one on one-- whereas I would run around like a sissy until the fat bastard was exhausted, and then kick his ass good and proper.
But Santa dismounted Slayer with surprising vitality. Flexing briefly, his red and white outfit tatters to shreds, falling to the ground.
Thanks a lot, Nordic Track.
Tie Dye
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
"Lemme get this straight," says Beautiful White Stallion. "Sorry Jimmy," he adds.
Jimmy giggles.
"You guys want access to Ethan's one and only very expensive and powerful Hyperdimensional Generator," he guffaws, "The one I'm guarding, because it's part of an elaborate plan to oust his beloved new Vice President and CEO?"
We all just kind of looked at each other.
That pretty much summed it up, really.
"Should be a piece of cake," I explain. "Ethan never said exactly where he hid the original LOBO. All he said was that 'LOBO would be very happy there'." Looping my fingertips around my temples, I struggle trying to think like a complete moron. "I'm thinking it's someplace like Romper Room ... "
Beautiful White Stallion sighs, thinking. "She's pretty wild in the sack, you know."
In unison: "We know!"
[Mr. I]
"Lemme get this straight," says Beautiful White Stallion. "Sorry Jimmy," he adds.
Jimmy giggles.
"You guys want access to Ethan's one and only very expensive and powerful Hyperdimensional Generator," he guffaws, "The one I'm guarding, because it's part of an elaborate plan to oust his beloved new Vice President and CEO?"
We all just kind of looked at each other.
That pretty much summed it up, really.
"Should be a piece of cake," I explain. "Ethan never said exactly where he hid the original LOBO. All he said was that 'LOBO would be very happy there'." Looping my fingertips around my temples, I struggle trying to think like a complete moron. "I'm thinking it's someplace like Romper Room ... "
Beautiful White Stallion sighs, thinking. "She's pretty wild in the sack, you know."
In unison: "We know!"
Postal
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Being captured by millions of bug-eating naked women isn't nearly as fun as it sounds.
But I'm bound to my coveted cool sparkly rock at the top of the plateau, so it's not a total loss.
A thundering black vehicle lazily circles the dark sky above me. As it drifts slowly closer, I can make out the vanity plate. It reads: "SANTA'S SLAYER".
"LOBO!" a voice booms down. "YOUR FREINDS HAVE ABANDONED YOU." A pause. "PLUS YOU LOST YOUR DENTAL PLAN."
"Stay away from my rock!" I says defiantly.
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE POWER OF THE LIGHT SIDE", the voice says.
"I'll never join you!" I says.
"WE MAIL OFF REBATES AND ACTUALLY GET THE MONEY BACK."
"Mail?" I spit.
A pause.
"WELL," says Kringle over the megaphone, "I WAS HOPING IT WOULDN'T COME TO THIS."
"Do your worst," says me.
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"No," I says. "Do I have to wear a uniform? Or sit in an office with a guy that farts a lot?"
Another pause.
"MAYBE".
"Fuck off!" I says.
"IT'S A PRETTY COOL UNIFORM REALLY. VERY MILITARY."
"What color is it?"
"I GUESS IT'S A TAUPE."
"What the fuck is a 'taupe'?"
"IT'S A KIND OF DUSKY BROWNISH-GREY, I SUPPOSE."
"What are you people hiding in? Shit?"
Suddenly, the whole sky is filled by the mighty dragon Scraps. Leathery wings flapping, they rhythmically obliterate the horizon.
I can hear the explosive sound of his wings, his breathing.
An eye the size of a billboard is mere meters from my face.
My bowels voided.
"Nice going, dumbass!" I yell. "What color is clean underwear in this dimension?"
[LOBO]
Being captured by millions of bug-eating naked women isn't nearly as fun as it sounds.
But I'm bound to my coveted cool sparkly rock at the top of the plateau, so it's not a total loss.
A thundering black vehicle lazily circles the dark sky above me. As it drifts slowly closer, I can make out the vanity plate. It reads: "SANTA'S SLAYER".
"LOBO!" a voice booms down. "YOUR FREINDS HAVE ABANDONED YOU." A pause. "PLUS YOU LOST YOUR DENTAL PLAN."
"Stay away from my rock!" I says defiantly.
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE POWER OF THE LIGHT SIDE", the voice says.
"I'll never join you!" I says.
"WE MAIL OFF REBATES AND ACTUALLY GET THE MONEY BACK."
"Mail?" I spit.
A pause.
"WELL," says Kringle over the megaphone, "I WAS HOPING IT WOULDN'T COME TO THIS."
"Do your worst," says me.
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"No," I says. "Do I have to wear a uniform? Or sit in an office with a guy that farts a lot?"
Another pause.
"MAYBE".
"Fuck off!" I says.
"IT'S A PRETTY COOL UNIFORM REALLY. VERY MILITARY."
"What color is it?"
"I GUESS IT'S A TAUPE."
"What the fuck is a 'taupe'?"
"IT'S A KIND OF DUSKY BROWNISH-GREY, I SUPPOSE."
"What are you people hiding in? Shit?"
Suddenly, the whole sky is filled by the mighty dragon Scraps. Leathery wings flapping, they rhythmically obliterate the horizon.
I can hear the explosive sound of his wings, his breathing.
An eye the size of a billboard is mere meters from my face.
My bowels voided.
"Nice going, dumbass!" I yell. "What color is clean underwear in this dimension?"
Cris-Crossed
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
A fucking mandatory meeting? On Saturday Morning?
Don't get me wrong. Ethan's a great man. A towering economic, political and philosophical success story of historic --possibly even epic-- proportion.
But I will kill him if I have to.
Head between my knees, I massage blinding pain from my temples with almost tearful futility.
Ethan isn't here yet, but everyone else is.
Whatever this is, it's a big deal.
***
Ethan takes the podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he clears his throat, and adjusts the microphone slightly. "First I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your weekend and coming here this morning. In that spirit, I'll keep this short and get right to the point."
Brief nervous murmurs swell in the room, utterly silenced when Ethan continues.
"Please allow me to take this opportunity to introduce you to the new Vice President and CEO of Hawley Enterprises." The room darkens. "I give you Babs!"
Thundering drums sear my cerebral cortex as a spotlight reveals a curvy silhouette sitting awkwardly in a chair. Groin never losing contact with a vertical pole, she scoops a briefcase up standing and kicks the chair away, the back of her ankle landing gracefully above her head. Then, with an assertive, lurid and determined gait, she walks toward the podium keeping time with the excruciatingly explosive music.
Please kill me.
Dazzling fireworks go off, and the lightshow starts. "BABS" is spelled out in flames behind the strutting, nubile beauty.
Everyone stands and applauds.
I tug at Sapphire, pulling her ear down to me. "She's getting LOBO's job?" I stammer.
"I guess," says Sapphire sideways so her eyes don't leave the spectacle.
I'm sensing some resentment here. "How'd she pull that off?" I manage.
Babs, arriving at the podium, drops her thin briefcase. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from inside her bra with one hand, she sticks it under Ethan's nose. With the other, she grabs his crotch.
Applauding, Sapphire continues, "I couldn't possibly begin to guess."
[Mr. I]
A fucking mandatory meeting? On Saturday Morning?
Don't get me wrong. Ethan's a great man. A towering economic, political and philosophical success story of historic --possibly even epic-- proportion.
But I will kill him if I have to.
Head between my knees, I massage blinding pain from my temples with almost tearful futility.
Ethan isn't here yet, but everyone else is.
Whatever this is, it's a big deal.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he clears his throat, and adjusts the microphone slightly. "First I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your weekend and coming here this morning. In that spirit, I'll keep this short and get right to the point."
Brief nervous murmurs swell in the room, utterly silenced when Ethan continues.
"Please allow me to take this opportunity to introduce you to the new Vice President and CEO of Hawley Enterprises." The room darkens. "I give you Babs!"
Thundering drums sear my cerebral cortex as a spotlight reveals a curvy silhouette sitting awkwardly in a chair. Groin never losing contact with a vertical pole, she scoops a briefcase up standing and kicks the chair away, the back of her ankle landing gracefully above her head. Then, with an assertive, lurid and determined gait, she walks toward the podium keeping time with the excruciatingly explosive music.
Please kill me.
Dazzling fireworks go off, and the lightshow starts. "BABS" is spelled out in flames behind the strutting, nubile beauty.
Everyone stands and applauds.
I tug at Sapphire, pulling her ear down to me. "She's getting LOBO's job?" I stammer.
"I guess," says Sapphire sideways so her eyes don't leave the spectacle.
I'm sensing some resentment here. "How'd she pull that off?" I manage.
Babs, arriving at the podium, drops her thin briefcase. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from inside her bra with one hand, she sticks it under Ethan's nose. With the other, she grabs his crotch.
Applauding, Sapphire continues, "I couldn't possibly begin to guess."
Friday
Pigs
Predator Press
[Mr. Insanity]
"Thank you for joining us," says the guy. He flips his FBI badge. "My name is Agent Parker."
"Yeah, okay," I says, flirting with the waitress.
Parker continues, "You understand it's your Patriotic Duty to elaborate on the," he pauses, "various activities you have alarmed us to."
"'Patriotic Duty' my ass," I says, wolfing the omlette down. "I'm making six figures annually now, after thirty years at eighteen-thousand per. What the fuck are you making? Forty? You're maybe, what, twenty four?"
"Twenty-six," Parker offers.
"Twenty six, fuck off," I says chewing loudly. "I've eaten Twinkies older'n you I bought on e-bay." I scrarf like a whole piece of french toast in my mouth. "I was waking up on sidewalks and sleeping under bridges at your age. Now I finally got a good gig going."
Slopping up the plate with my toast, I drive it home. "If you want intelligence, my 'cash flow' issues are going to have to be," I point at him with my soggy french toast, "... mitigated."
[Mr. Insanity]
"Thank you for joining us," says the guy. He flips his FBI badge. "My name is Agent Parker."
"Yeah, okay," I says, flirting with the waitress.
Parker continues, "You understand it's your Patriotic Duty to elaborate on the," he pauses, "various activities you have alarmed us to."
"'Patriotic Duty' my ass," I says, wolfing the omlette down. "I'm making six figures annually now, after thirty years at eighteen-thousand per. What the fuck are you making? Forty? You're maybe, what, twenty four?"
"Twenty-six," Parker offers.
"Twenty six, fuck off," I says chewing loudly. "I've eaten Twinkies older'n you I bought on e-bay." I scrarf like a whole piece of french toast in my mouth. "I was waking up on sidewalks and sleeping under bridges at your age. Now I finally got a good gig going."
Slopping up the plate with my toast, I drive it home. "If you want intelligence, my 'cash flow' issues are going to have to be," I point at him with my soggy french toast, "... mitigated."
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 ...
[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 ...
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