Screwed

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

Well, we can get where LOBO is, the problem lies in that we can't come back the same way.

Ethan, I'm sure, did that on purpose. So LOBO wouldn't get bored and wander back prematurely into an entire universe of people still murderously pissed at him. But this whole Foley-Hastert fiasco might be just the ticket, really; that kid was expensive to hire, but worth every penny.

Oh, come on ... don't be so judgmental. I'll bet 99.9999% of you never even knew LOBO was alive in the first place, and here you all are killing LOBOs by the overflowing truckload.

You people sicken me.


***

I take the elevator to Ethan's office for two reasons. First, I want my fruit basket and props for successfully navigating the PR for his best friend's dimensional return. Second, I wanted to congratulate him for capturing the official lead worldwide for killing overflowing truckloads of LOBOs.

He nudged me out by sixteen.

But as the elevator opens, the air explodes with thick hostility.

"Tramp!" yells Ethan.

[glass breaking]

"Whore!" yells Babs.

A frying pan wangs off of the elevator door. Dented, it rolls to a stop at my feet.

While I stare at it, frozen in panic, a tiny person in a suit staggers in. He's holding his forehead, but I recognize him instantly.

To picture Cobe Ryant, the Hawley Enterprises "Director of Operations", picture a pasty skillet-faced cross between E.T. and Golum in an expensive suit.

This guy is so profoundly ugly, I suspect we're related.

"Down please," he says politely, leaning exhausted against the wall.

I look at the buttons, trying to think. "Was that Ethan and Babs fighting?" I says, trying to pick a safe floor while tapping the DOOR CLOSE button.

"Yes," wheezes Cobe.

I press P. "Why?"

"She keeps TIVOing over his episodes of "Who Wants to Eat Bugs and Marry a Millionaire," he says, trying to calm down. "She recorded Lost over the season finale." He sighs, shaking his head, "Now we'll never know how it turned out."

I'm watching the overhead lights intensely counting down to my car. My very fast car. With a very full tank of gas. "So why were you up there, anyway?"

"Negotiating the breakup," he says matter-of-factly as the doors open. We step out in a fast, tense walk. "She gets everything south of Interstate 80, with the exception of Mexico, Texas, all copper holdings in South America, and various, eh, unmapped areas of Columbia--"

As I stop Cobe by his sleeve, the other elevator dings.

"Ethan gave up Vegas?" I ask in disbelief.

The elevator opens to audible choked sobbing. Ethan emerges, tears streaming from bloodshot eyes, reading the thick agreement.

"Aw," he wails. "I didn't even get Reno?"

"I'll give you a ten-second head start," I growl, pulling Cobe's face to mine by his lapel, "before I start killing people until there aren't even rumors you ever lived."

"NOT SO FAST," says a mysterious silhouette.

"Dude," I says, "How do you do a 'mysterious silhouette' thing in a well-lit parking lot?"

I hear the familiar clicks and whirrs of cybernetic Brad Pitt legs as the figure emerges, brandishing an AR-15 pointed at my head.

"Dash Cunning," I says. "The Pro-Choice movement's poster boy himself."

He looks, honestly, a bit confused for a second.

Shaking it off, he sneers "I KNOW YOU ARE, BUT WHAT AM I?"

Skinny Dip

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."

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.

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!"

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?"

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."

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."