Bilge

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I got up early. Showered, shaved, pony tailed, suited, the works.

I would go as far as to say I looked rather dapper.

But 16 miles at 105 MPH in 17 degrees with my car door bungee-corded shut changed the game a little … My hair, still wet when I left, has flash-frozen closely to my head.

Goddamnnit, it’s perfect. I mean seriously: my hair is magnificent. Maybe I don't need a new car after all ...

And as predicted, Ethan really doesn’t seem to care about me getting some time off, as long as I get it cleared with the Director of Operations.

The Director of Operations, of course, is Cobe.

Houston, we may have a problem.


***

“We have concerns about how the corporate image Predator Press has evolved this year,” he says.

“Our image is fine,” I insist impatiently.

“Really?” says Cobe, thumping a big file on his desk. “Assault on a noted environmentalist, the attempted homicide of Santa Claus—“

“Okay fine. We’ve hit some speed bumps,” LOBO admits. "Look, I'll give you a quarter--"

Cobe’s eyes narrow. “You also tried to have me killed,” he says thinly.

“It was for a good cause,” I offer.

“Well, I think you should have to postpone your vacation until you have done something to repair the tarnish public image we are enduring.”

“What about all my charity work?”

“Ah, yes. Breast and Ovarian Cancer,” Cobe replies. “I would like to see something a little more tangible. Something more visible on a local level.”

“Like what?”




***

So I’m sitting outside the Kmart, freezing to death.

Dressed as Santa Claus.

I bang my bell on the red pot, yelling at bewildered customers through my fake beard. “You unpatriotic, cheapskate deadbeats! The French could kick the crap out of this so-called 'Army' … !”

Exit Wounds

Predator Press

[Mr I]

The best thing about dating Sapphire was it was a fun secret around the office.

But here it is, the biggest, craziest psychotic week of the year --courtesy of LOBO-- and poof, she's gone.

I was really starting to like her too.

But face it guys; once the hooks are in, you're done. Everything you do is for 'the couple', everything she does is for her.

It starts really sneaky. First she’s working on your little things, nuisance behaviors. Then appearance and health. Then ultimately, your boozing and whoring. Then she's ditching you for big stuff with evasive excuses, careful about which calls she answers around you, keeping crazy nocturnal hours and friends, all the while balancing an appearance of a commitment as long as the commitment doesn't require too much risk or effort ...

Nothing too inconvenient. It's not like we have anything actually at stake here.

I've been working 24-7 on a "relationship" with someone who has no idea who I am, has no time, and wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire. And I’m so dumb, I sat there for a while wondering “What happened?”

For a few days, anyways.

Free Lunch

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In a last ditch effort to mooch the free vacation I deserve rather than actually paying for anything, I broke into Bertram.

Again.

Doctor Keller was utterly confounded. "How do you keep getting in here?" he says, exasperated.

"Getting in is the easy part Doc," I brag. "The real trick is getting into the straight jacket."

"And how do you do that?"

"I have very nimble toes."

South for the Winter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I've talked myself into it.

As hard as it will be to afford, screw it. I need this.

I hate this place and everyone here, and desperately need to go and hate being someplace else for a while ... someplace with some of that oh-so-detestable sand maybe.

And screw airport security! I'm not packing nothing 'cept sunscreen, my roller blades, and a thong.

See you in ten days!

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.)