Predator Press
I don’t know how Ethan pulled it off, but Kevin Federline and his entourage arrive almost precisely on time for the exclusive Predator Press interview. I would have had more time for preparation, but people at work say its been difficult to reach me since I trekked through Mordor to chuck my cellphone into Mount Doom a few weeks ago. I’m starting to suspect the two events are linked somehow …
LOBO: I know you. You’re the dude dating that Britney Spears chick, right?
Kevin Federline: Actually, we got married. [Kevin pauses] We’re currently getting a divorce.
LOBO: Any kids?
Kevin Federline: Yes.
LOBO: Wow, that’s terrible.
Kevin Federline: Yes. But Britney and I have parted on good terms, and she’s a wonderful woman. We’re going to do our best to raise them like any other loving family would under these circumstances. Now can we please get on to discussing my new recording project?
LOBO: I saw her at some awards show or something on television. She’s pretty hot.
Kevin Federline: Yes, I know.
LOBO: She’s probably loaded, too.
Kevin Federline: She’s very comfortable.
LOBO: Is she dating yet?
Kevin Federline: I don’t know, it’s none of my business.
LOBO: Say, do you think a chick like Britney and a guy like me--?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Probably for the best really. I mean she’s got kids already and everything. That’s always awkward.
Kevin Federline: I can imagine.
LOBO: Kevin, level with me. She’s hot, and she’s rich. What’s the problem between you two?
Kevin Federline: Hey buddy, I thought this interview was supposed to be about my upcoming tour.
LOBO: Was she lousy in the sack?
Kevin Federline: No.
LOBO: Did she, like, clip her toenails in bed, shooting them all over the bedroom like crazy random grenade shrapnel?
Kevin Federline: No. But I'm trying to promote my tour despite--
LOBO: Okay, slowly. I'm trying to get all this down. You're going to sit there and look me in the eye and tell me you never once cut your bare foot on one of those jagged, deadly toenails hidden deeply in the shag carpet? My God I'll bet you could hang your Carharts on one of those things imbedded in the wall. Kevin ... I'm skeptical here really. I mean, you're a good lookin pup and all, but she's hot AND she's rich. Fess up. Without making any commentary on your housecleaning habits, I just can't see you making this hot, rich babe vacuum until you hear each of the ten errant toenails violently crack inside your Hoover one by one. In fact, I'll bet you ended up having to do it yourself. And you became so annoyed that it was drowning out your yelling, you lost count at like seven or so--
Kevin Federline: That tears it. This interview is OVER.
LOBO: Okay, fine. I believe you about the toenails NOT destroying the relationship, but I'm not sure our readers will. Did she cook like crap? Was her back too hairy? Wait --are you gay? You could discretely tell me into that microphone if you were gay. That microphone has been broken for weeks. And I certainly wouldn't tell anyone you admitted you were gay into a broken microphone during an Exclusive Predator Press interview--
Kevin Federline: I'm not gay! [furious, exasperated pause] Okay, fine! She was lousy in the sack, alright?
LOBO: Wow. I knew it. What's the name of your band again?
Saturday
Lighten Up
Predator Press
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
[LOBO]
All some people ever do is magnify my faults, and completely ignore all the good things I do.
Take, for instance, Jake and Christie. Yes, I forgot the baby at Office Max ... I think the police and various national news agencies have made that abundantly clear already. But those two freaking out at me about it over and over is just plain redundant. I mean I went back and found her, didn't I? And did they give me any credit for getting her that really cool stapler? Hm?
I'll let it slide for now .. I know there's a lot going on. They are stressed what with the new baby arriving, and it doesn't help that within days the State levels charges of Child Endangerment, Abandonment, and Arson on a Medical Facility against them. Or the simultaneous and merciless evisceration by every news medium there is around the globe. Or the murderous outrage of the general neighborhood, let alone the nation.
The only reason they're even famous is because of me.
I think those two owe me a big apology.
Wednesday
GRACELAND
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
YESTERDAY
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
***
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
***
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
[LOBO]
Congratulations Jake and Christie!
The mere sight of this tiny newborn innocent has moved me deeply. I solemnly swear from this day forward, I will never rest until this a better world for you and your adorable progeny.
But at some point, alas, control of the conquered and festering cosmic pothole aka "Earth" must be handed down to a new heir, and there are no guarantees that this new line will kick ass even half as long or as well as my glorious, brilliant and sexy rule did. Hey let's face it ... it's not even really all that likely, is it? Wasn't it cool?
Despite this, in a fit of unprecedented benevolence and mercy, I’m scrapping my rather unpopular plan to extract and devour Earth's creamy nougat center, and subsequently harvesting whatever's left of the hollowed-out, useless planet --as well as everyone on and around it-- into raw materials for the War Effort.
A war, I remind you, that has been established clearly as being one in the interest of your protection.
It's really your war, after all. And I'm behind you 110%.
Ah screw it.
Let's move on.
Instead, as I was saying, I will be presenting this worthless chunk of crap to the new heir.
As a gift.
Trust me; you'll have a far better chance of survival if I pretend you have some sort of intrinsic value.
Other than that, it won't seem all that different really. She shall rule for a thousand million years with iron fists of galvanized wisdom, exactly as I did. I suppose the major differences will be illustrated best in sentences like "The joyous and worshipful citizenry will be voraciously taxed to their nutritional limits in order to ensure compliance, population control, and easy management," and "they shall enjoy mandatory participation in the universal benefits provided by the purest democratic voice of the people: The War Machine," and, "Failure to comply fully will incur two mandatory and immediate consecutive death penalties that consist of brutal execution, then medical resurrection, and then brutal re-execution," blah blah blah.
Look ... relax. I'll bet you guys are going to get along just fine. My father once told me "A thick glaze of character-building forced labor, horrific, indescribable torture and mortifying public humiliation is the best recipe for a vast, harmonious kingdom that quietly sublimates the will of the people, feeding directly on their defenseless, withering souls for the rest of measurable time and space."
Good luck with that. I never really had any idea what that crazy fuck was talking about.
... And I am just kidding of course; this new heir can do whatever she wants with you, which or may not include feeding on your souls for eternity. Personally, I'm thinking not, but I'll keep my ears peeled and let you know if I hear any differently.
But this is pretty damn cool for a gift, don't you think? How can I gift wrap it to cleverly disguise the contents? ... With anything conventional, one look and she'll instantly know what it is, and the surprise is totally ruined.
That's why she's not getting a bicycle.
I've just endured 18 hours of labor, and I’m freakin’ exhausted. Christie, dammit, you just have no idea how arduous it is sitting in that waiting room, pacing the floor, eating out of dubious vending machines, chain smoking, and hassling the random snooty medical personnel wandering about. Quit being so inconsiderate and get on with the birthing already, woman! Have you even the vaguest notion of what this is costing? The hospital fiscal unit is making up numbers by now, and adding them feverishly with their "Calculatrons" or whatever fancy space-age devices people are using now to do math.
I am so bored! Security has already warned that if I go joyriding around the parking lot in their kickass precious ambulance again, those sanctimonious paramedic assholes will totally freak and call the cops. But I just checked: my Restricted Learner's Permit doesn't expire for four more days: I'm totally legal assholes.
Besides, I got an eighteen hour head start.
I was here first.
But every time that alarm goes off, it's the same old story: the paramedics come running, but rather than handling this in a civilized manner -calling "shotgun", and squeezing that fat ass on over to the passenger side- he, she, they bitch.
Invariably, they make a case of some sort, but my logic is rational, elegant, and completely airtight: I says, "Who died and made you 'Ambulance Driver For Life'?"
More bitching.
"Then walk to the fucking plane crash for all I care," I finally says exasperated.
That usually does the trick.
Now, I’m not an asshole … I'll drive slow for a while, as to give them a chance to rethink their situation while running at around 15 MPH or so to keep up. And I'll remind them of those poor people burning alive while their paramedics couldn't suck it up, temporarily setting their pride aside and just letting me drive. And admitting that I am right and they are wrong. And that Van Roth was waaay better than Van Hagar, and that everyone working at their hospital is a overvalued pompous stooge, a mere shill suckling at the diseased, bloated teat of the Food and Drug Administration which is secretly controlled by an elite agenda-driven cartel of diabolical tofu-hawking devil worshipers.
But instead of being reasonable, they just chase me yelling the usual tedious stuff, like "That vehicle is for emergency use only," and "There isn't going to be any nitrous left if you keep that up," and, "Please, we need to get to that Big Fire."
Well, blah blah blah-itis to you this time, Doctor Buzzkill!
Maybe in the future, you will conduct pregnancies like a modern, civilized medical facility with rigidly-scheduled, timely and efficient procedures that are accommodating and considerate to all people involved, rather than all this "waiting around for dilation" and "anesthesia" and whatever other unnecessary bullshit you mal-practitioning quacks deign to pad our bills with. “Observation?” Oh please … Take a goddamn picture, and let us the fuck out of here you pervert.
The act of simply waiting at a hospital costs sixty-seven cents a second … And --even at that rate—the waiting still sucks. Try spending sixty-seven cents a second at a local strip bar and then compare your notes. Ten times out of ten you'll pick the set of lipstick-stained notes that smell like Safari.
For sixty-seven cents a second, this "hospital" once daringly risked fiscal collapse by squeaking out six 'Sports Illustrated' issues dating from 1993-1996, and a perpetual cycle of four full episodes of 'Family Matters' playing way too loud on a four pixel television with no knobs, sunken in cracking drywall to my left.
Each thirty minute episode can be enjoyed at a leisurely rate of roughly $8,000 apiece.
After about $31,000 I finally point at the kid in glasses on the TV and ask how the hell Webster got so damned tall. "Now that guy’s got a doctor that knows his shit," I taunt. "What hospital does he go to?" the crowd titters. "Your doctors suck, and I’m glad Christie's insurance card is fake and you’re getting totally screwed on the bill, you blood-sucking, voodoo-science vultures!" I dutifully inform the receptionist. "Jake, go pull those needles and tubes and catheters out of Christie so the three of us can storm out of this colossal effigy of medical mockery together with our dignity and pride intact.”
I'm sure Christie wanted intact dignity and pride, but she was distracted by sudden, intense contractions that doubled her over. I tried to ease her pain and buttress her courage by starting a fire, but an orderly tackled me! As the ninety-pound girl thrusts my arm up painfully behind my shoulderblades, I growl a warning to the other orderlies wheeling Christie away to the delivery room, "Don't think for a second that your health witchcraft and sorcery will lighten our mood at The Trials. All you doctors and wizards will burn alike!"
A needle pricks my arm, and I start dozing off.
"I shall show no quarter," I yawn. "None ... "
So after 21 hours, Christie FINALLY grunts out this tiny glob of horrifyingly misshapen flesh. And once they got Christie's blood and guts and stuff off, there was a sorta wrinkly little girl smiling up at us. It's a damn good thing someone thought to check inside that goo I suppose, but for that and cleaning off Christie's blood and guts and stuff, these mercenary hospital ghouls charged Jake and Christie another $1,400.
$1,400! If I wasn't restrained in the hospital bed next to her and still woozy from Vicodin, I could have done that with 8 cents worth of Scott towels and a well-placed squirt or two of Simple Green. Probably at cost too, if I didn't see any Teamsters around.
That leaves over $1,399. Now true, raising the kid alone will run you upwards of eighty or ninety bucks, but you’ve still have over $1,300 in profit for scratch-off lottery tickets, Franklin Institute Commemorative NASCAR Plates, and a vast number of comprehensive Extended Service Warrantees.
BTW, when they let me loose, I’m stealing every fucking tongue depressor in the whole goddamned facility: with the chains of The Depressor cast off, I’m hoping it will be moments before upbeat, manic tongues swarm over the place, starting fires and looting until Marshall Law is declared.
It could happen.
Wait. Did I say tongue depressors? I meant Vicodin.
Sorry.
As the automatic doors slide open, screeching alarms and black smoke pour out. We calmly wheel Christy to the car, hoping no important one sees us.
And I am relieved it's a girl anyway. I'm far too lazy for a little boy; little boys like to play football and tag and bring home fast-moving, slippery, hard-to-catch lizards and stuff … [*yawn*] ... Good call, Jake and Christie!
"Jake, here’s your kid. And some tongue depressors. I need a nap ... I'm totally bushed."
Indeed, childbirth is a very tough thing to go through, and raising children is a challenging, demanding, and often thankless job. I stand here a forever changed man.
And I won't soon be forgetting whatever it was I was thinking about just now.
"Shotgun," I call.
Thou Shalt Not Bitch
Predator Press
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
Monday
Borne Again
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
***
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
Saturday
AGNES
Predator Press
[LOBO]
ay Bultema wasn't a particularly handsome guy, but he was interesting looking. Something about him, his demeanor, something, drew your attention.
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
***
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
[LOBO]
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
Thursday
Strictly Carnivore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
***
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
LOBO - Predator Press "I can't believe the woman giving the MRI was flirting with you right in front of me ," Wendy growled.... -
Predator Press [LOBO] Yes it's totally true. There is now, in fact, a $14.95 Bionic Ear . And I'm not even going to g...
