Bio Graphic

Predator Press

[LOBO]

When I woke up this morning to take my, eh, “morning constitutional”, a quarter that was stuck to my butt fell in the toilet.

Now I have to drive to Kmart every time I need to use the bathroom, and the Yellow Pages don’t have any listings under ‘Toilet Quarter Removal’.

Plus it’s Sunday.

The local authorities have been absolutely no help whatsoever.

... I've got a feeling this is going to cost me big ...

Stiletto

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Alright, which one of you people did it?

We can sit here all day if we have to.

Think I’m kidding?

One of you has violated the sacred and healing, uh, sanctimonium of this blog by showing it to the South American Consulate in order to arrange for my extradition.

In other words, one of you is a rat. And until I see entire cities burning in a mammoth effort of apocalyptic proportion to find and eradicate this despicable invisible scourge, I’m holding you all responsible.

What if I was publishing sensitive military secrets that could unhinge known global policy and wipe out humanity forever? For shame, thoughtless reader! And now everybody in South America knows that I watch American Chopper; could you possibly have made an assassination attempt any easier? Now anytime I watch that lazy Mikey, I have to worry about subliminal images leaping into my wholesome and unprepared mind, lulling me into a hypnotical state suitable for receiving a bullet in my noggin!

God that Mikey is so lazy.

Nevertheless, don’t make me start doing background checks people, because I will!

Was it you?

Or you? Oh, I never trusted you. Your eyes are a little shifty.

I’m waiting.

We can do this all day if we have to …

A Little Dumber Boy

Predator Press

[Mr I]

Twas three weeks before Christmas in the vast ICU,
and there I sit pensive, watching Cobe turn blue.
Phil was strapped firmly to the gurney with care,
a big ‘X’ on her chest marked the scalpels’ crosshair.

LOBO is locked in the trunk of my car
streaming obscenities for being captured afar;
Thank God for Ethan and his cool tracking gear,
and that LOBO's so dumb, the "Christmas Card" thing works every year.

Then all through the place there arose such a clatter
I sprung up from bedside to see what’s the matter;
Those clickings and whirs were burned in our heads:
The cybernetic sounds of Brad Pitt’s stolen legs!

Santa sneaks in with his hand to his lips
telling us “Shh”. He smiles --with his hat gives a tip--
and out from his bag, he pulls out a light
that slips to Cobe’s chest, closing it tight.

Cobe sits up, rubs his eyes as do we;
He’s alive, well and grinning at Phil, Santa and me!

Well, we know it’s not Christmas, but we wish you well now
(--non-denominational Phil, of course, just says meow.)

Killswitch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where ultimately there is no choice at all.

Without a heart transplant from Phil, Cobe will die.

The stress of all this coupled with two lengthy stays at the hospital, the Thanksgiving/Christmas rush, annual reviews and a frustratingly-lengthy murder attempt during eighteen hours of snow was enough; I grab up Phil and head to a secluded, unnamed beach in Rio to hole out for a while.

It turned out to be a nude beach, so I took Phoebe too.

She’s had a rough week.

Plus maybe I’ll get that pictorial after all. In fact, maybe she just gets really wild on the idea of public nudity once she tries it; I could easily fry billions of brain cells trying to burn that image into my mind. And then she says, 'Sure, I would love to do a pictorial for Predator Press ... it would be so hot,' and then asks me to oil her bronzed breasts while she complains how long it's been since she's been to her Nymphomania Therapy because her bronzed breasts weren't oiled correctly ...

I just don't think you readers give me enough appreciation for how much work I put into this blog.

Well, this all sounds great, doesn’t it? Just me, my cat, and a hot, naked, maybe-nympho princess soaking up the sun, impatiently awaiting the news of Cobe’s untimely death?

Leave it to Ethan to go and wreck it all up.


***

The only thing that blows about Predator Press gearing down for the holiday season is that Ethan makes me sign all the Christmas cards we send to friends and business associates.

Last year, there were more than 16,000.

I started out writing my full name, but my hand got tired --and my handwriting isn’t all that great to start with; people were calling us and asking who the hell “Myrtle L. Forensics” was.

So then I started signing “LOBO”. Then just “LOB”. And then finally “L”. This only prompted a January and February chocked full of ‘Laverne’ jokes at my expense.

So by leaving quietly for South America, I figured I would slip out on that little detail this year. But Ethan has his ways, and crates of the stupid cards were drop shipped right to my door the very same morning. This leaves me trapped in a motel room with a bitchy Phoebe, who, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe, refuses to go to the beach because Phil took a shit on it.

I wasn’t the one that gave him all those Pena Coladas now, was I?

Surly from my ruined vacation plans, I refocus my unrequited rage. That “doctor” was nothing more than a Republican zealot and a quack besides. Why should Phil, who has given birth to at least sixty kittens, get murdered just because Cobe is a jerk? Is it because Phil leads an ‘alternative lifestyle’ that is none of my business? Like Predator Press needs hassles from the Rainbow Coalition?

I pick out the doc’s Christmas card from the piles, and affix it with Phil’s pawprint. Then, right over "Wishing you a Merry Christmas", I put a big red “CANCELLED’ and “VOID” stamp.

That'll learn 'im.

Happy Holidays, Doctor Biggot Jerkface MD.

In the Bones

Predator Press

[Mr I]

“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”

“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.

“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”

The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”

“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.

“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”

“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”

“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”

“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”

The doctor shakes his head.

“Not one lousy heart?”

“No.”

“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.

The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”

LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”

“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”

We both look at LOBO.

“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”

I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”

“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“

LOBO screamed.

November Rain

Predator Press

[Mr I]

“You’re not going to believe this,” I says to LOBO. “Cobe got this wild hair up his tail about doing a nude pictorial of Phoebe.”

“No!” says LOBO.

“Yeah. We got the whole thing on the security cams. Watch this.”

It’s grainy, and the fresh snow is rather blinding on the monitor. At 7:45 am (as reflected in the corner of the screen), Phoebe pulls into the parking facility just in time for work. Even in her heeled boots, the tall, leggy beauty is graceful in ankle-deep snow.

Greeting her at the entrance is Cobe.

I fast forward a little. “This is pretty dull for a few minutes here. ‘Hi, nice to see you this morning’ blah blah. But then at precisely 7:51, here it goes--”

Whatever happened really isn’t clear. There is a slight twitch, maybe a flinch of Phoebe’s hip, and she continues on into the building, tossing something dark and round over her shoulder that flops shapelessly into the snow. Even in the slowest-motion the security cam provided, whatever happened seems to happen between frames.

Cobe remains standing motionless, a strange look crossing over his face.

“Now watch this,” I say, pointing to Cobe's chest with my pen.

A small dark circle appears on his parka, and Cobe slumps forward slightly. The white snow in front of him is now splattered in dark, thick fluid.

At 7:52, Cobe’s lifeless body finally crumples to the ground.

“The police are on the way, and our insurance companies are besides themselves,” I say.

“Why?” asks LOBO. “He asked Phoebe to do a nude pictorial. I would say that this is classified as an attempted suicide. And on the off-chance he survives, we can simply have him fired for attempted murder of himself.”

“Attempted nothing,” I say. “According to our records, Cobe opted for an HMO.”

“Well, why are we wasting time with an ambulance then? I say we 'can' him right now for destruction of company assets, and have the maintenance guys throw him in the dumpster.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Phoebe has just been trough a very traumatic experience and I’m going to console her. You know, you really should try and be a little more sensitive to people at times like this.”

Angry Management

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Cobe,” I says. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you sir,” says the hideous little man. “I’m up for review this week. I work so much, I haven’t slept or bathed since April.”

“How very efficient,” I reply ponderously. “Do you think you’ll get that Chief Negotiator position?”

“Excuse me sir?”

“You didn’t know? I thought everybody knew.” Here comes the lying part. “Ethan has been considering you for that position for a long time now.”

I am the Rembrandt of lying.

With enough time, I could convince you George Bush was secretly a celebrated part-time accountant for MENSA.

"Really?"

“Yeah,” I says excitely. “Cobe, you’re absolutely gruesome.”

Oops.

“Thank you sir.”

“--I mean a shoe-in”, I stammer. “Oh, fuck it. There. I said it. Cobe, you’re one revolting-looking human being. I mean like H. P. Lovecraft ugly."

“I appreciate your candor, sir,” Cobe replies. “But you were saying about the job … ?”

“Oh yeah. That. I would say your chances are about 50-50 at this point.” I pause for drama, stretching coolly. Exhaling, “... Too bad you couldn’t, I don’t know, impress Ethan with something really big between now and that review.”

“I work 106 hours a week with no breaks.”

“Negotiating?”

“No.”

I shake my head. “See, that’s what I mean. And the timing’s bad too. There’s really only one big outstanding Predator Press negotiation pending right now.” Thinking quickly I add, “--being that it’s the slow season for negotiations and all.”

“What negotiation is that?” asks Cobe with keen, predictable, and butt-ugly interest.

“We want Phobe to pose nude on PredatorPress.com.”

“But wouldn’t Sapphire be a—?“

“Saphire’s a stripper, you fuckin freakshow-destined yet otherwise model employee. Everybody’s already seen Sapphire’s action. Don’t you remember that post when she made us put up naked pictures of her?” I tap my forehead, trying to remember, “It’s in the archives," I flounder. "It’s that one post with all the cursing. According to the counter, nobody fucking went.”

“According to the counter, nobody goes to any of PredatorPress.com--”

“Being a ‘Mr. Smarty Guy’ and tripping me up with the facts isn’t going to help your situation, you revolting, multi-celled organism.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Noted,” I says, continuing ...