Predator Press
[Ethan]
"For God's sake Cobe, move move move!"
EVERYTHING has got to go. I said six hours, and I meant six hours.
Not six hours and twenty-three and a half minutes.
"And be careful with Venus de Milo this time. If you break her arms off again, I'll have you stuffed--!"
Why is good help so hard to find these days?
I need a lozenge.
How am I supposed to impress the locals with no parade, no fanfare, no spectacle whatsoever? Not even a single lousy gigantic bear? Nothing! And after I had to walk to the plane expending my own personal energy, the least these gibberish-speaking deadbeat slackers could have done was carry me.
Just look! I think I'm getting a blister.
The only good thing about this is this new exchange rate: I was able to buy the Tzar Nicholas' desk for thirty-four cents; I could have talked them down I'm sure, but I was feeling generous.
"You can break a hundred dollar bill, right Stroganov?"
Chop chop there Ivan; maybe 'The Pen is Mightier than the Sword', but it takes a long, long time to get your head lopped off with a pen ...
Thursday
Wednesday
Love is a Funny Thing
Predator Press
[LOBO]
t was cold. And Troy had grown so much over the past year, his gigantic feet stuck out over the edge of the bed.
Virtually everyone commented on his size. And naturally large already, the hard farming toil made his body answer as steel.
In deference to his heartbroken mother, rarely was how much he looked like his father spoken aloud. Indeed, 'Vetter the Silent' would have been long forgotten were Troy not first born the very same year the Beast was slain. To the contrary, he was hailed by the small community as a sign of a fearless new beginning.
And at seventeen, he was already starting to doubt those stories.
Tired from working the dying fields, he should by all rights be sleeping soundly. But his mind dwelled relentlessly over the previous day; the day his beloved Ella, the graceful, lovely girl whom he had deflowered only weeks before, was denied him forever.
He could no longer stare at the ceiling through tears; the cold, mourning weight of his aching heart collapsed deeper into the void every second, and rest was not soon imminent. Rubbing his eyes he sat up. Surely Ella’s mother was mistaken! Was he not rich enough? Honest enough? Good-looking enough? Indeed, Troy passed over desirable –and desiring-- brides every day. Why should he be so denied? The image of that hard, disagreeable woman, aged to unguessable years by the unkind elements and labor, telling him ‘no’ seared wounds into his mind again and again.
Earlier, Kess tried to help with advice. Winter drawing near, the chores easing ever so slowly, they found themselves occasionally frittering twilight hours away fishing, climbing trees, playing games; the idle pleasures of youth. “You are, after all, a bastard,” he offers. “Perhaps Ella’s mother is simply unimpressed with your prospects.” Smacking Troy hard, a wrestling taunt, he smiles, “I would suggest you do something heroic, were you not such a big pussy.”
Pondering this, Troy got up in the early night and donned his twice-altered pants and his thrice-altered shirt. After his boots, he folded his seemingly tiny blanket out of habit, lost in deep thought. There was nothing to heroic to do, it seemed, in this bland farming community.
We barely survive; was this not heroic enough?
***
The “Beast’s” former lair is still well-known. Looted completely, it was sealed with stones sixteen years hence.
And it was most certainly an evil place even still.
Nonetheless, one by one, Troy mindlessly tossed the stones away. Perhaps a demonstration of courage was in order; were he to retrieve a souvenir from this shunned, ominous place, perhaps it would impress Ella’s mother. Tip the scales. Win her over. And then Ella and he would be wed with her blessing, raising her grandchildren.
He poked his torch into the small hole he had created and dropped it inside, watching carefully. There was nothing to see except more cave. No cobwebs, no life, nothing.
He wiggled in.
It was warmer than he expected. And moist. And the smells were that of fetid, unseen vermin. Were he not so sure the cave was utterly sealed, he would have suspected that maybe the mountain cats were denned here. Maybe bears.
He knew that anything easy to find in this forsaken place would have been stolen long ago. So despite his size, he worked himself into difficult corridors that seemed to loop and climb and drop, sometimes only to pointlessly loop back into a sizable chamber where he had been before. Still, with his innate and uncanny sense of direction, he was never lost, never moments from the tiny entrance in the random maze.
In a tight downward shaft, he began to find bones.
Small, uninteresting ones at first. But the deeper he crawled, the larger they became. An avid hunter, these were bones of animals he had never seen before; long, delicate birdlike ones. Even one of these strange specimens would have fulfilled his original goal most likely; groups would come for miles around for a campfire only to speculate fantastically what The Beast ate, weaving tales told over generations.
But questions arose in his mind. Why are there so many of this same strange animal? And what does this large bird look like? The fact that the size of the bones increased as he persisted downward in the dark made his heart race. How big were the really big ones? Would he find the bones of something of equal size of the beast? What would that be?
Noises.
Scratching. Something heavy against crumbling stone.
He stopped and listened.
Nothing.
***
The cavern spilled wide suddenly, into a space the torchlight couldn’t illuminate well. He dropped it in front of himself to gauge the depth. It fell for about ten feet, sparking wildly on the ground from the impact. Then with an abrupt stop, it came to rest awkwardly on a pale, jagged surface.
It was the surface of a sea of skeletons. Bones picked so clean they could have passed for snow in the poor light.
He gasped and gaped; this chamber was just so vast; it was like standing under a dark sky.
Dropping his torch here was a mistake obviously. He only had one left, and unless this adventure was over now, he would need one for the winding and cramped way to the cavern’s opened entrance.
But the treasure! Within ten feet of the torch was a bone of such incredible size, it must have been a horse, or at least a creature of equal size. Troy had never actually seen a 'horse' before; this could be proof.
Before long, torch retrieved, he was scrambling across the jagged, ivory surface. In the distance was a strange geometrically organized area that had drawn his curiosity, and he decided that that would be the end of his explorations. He scrabbled deeper into the chamber, boots sinking --sometimes to the knee-- into the grizzly terrain.
In a circle on the biggest bones of all lie scattered big, thick, randomly-shaped shards of some sort. He picked one up.
It was light, yet strangely flat and thick. Too flat to be a bone.
You might think it was an eggshell ...
***
Bedazzled by the new smell of young human flesh, the hunter glided down in virtually silent circles. Despite being crazed and ravenous by the exotic, delectable meal, it was wary and restrained, picking the moment by instinct.
It came down on the boy perfectly. A certain killstrike.
But Troy, senses alive, was no fool. At the last second he stepped aside as the mammoth predator slammed into the "ground". And in a fraction of a moment the clever boy’s sword was being pulled from the foolish beast’s neck.
He stood in awe of his kill. It was easily fifteen feet long--
Smaller, the next one seized upon the hesitation, clamping down on his torch arm at the elbow. Troy passed into shock as he and the grinning beast pulled at separate angles ... flesh, muscle, and ligaments stripped away from his naked bone, punctuated with a sickening lurch at the wrist.
The third, much smaller blur, lopped at his other arm. Missing badly, he snapped the boy's sword with a sickening, muffled clang.
And then there was another.
And another.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Alas, fair Ella, your mother was right--
[LOBO]
Virtually everyone commented on his size. And naturally large already, the hard farming toil made his body answer as steel.
In deference to his heartbroken mother, rarely was how much he looked like his father spoken aloud. Indeed, 'Vetter the Silent' would have been long forgotten were Troy not first born the very same year the Beast was slain. To the contrary, he was hailed by the small community as a sign of a fearless new beginning.
And at seventeen, he was already starting to doubt those stories.
Tired from working the dying fields, he should by all rights be sleeping soundly. But his mind dwelled relentlessly over the previous day; the day his beloved Ella, the graceful, lovely girl whom he had deflowered only weeks before, was denied him forever.
He could no longer stare at the ceiling through tears; the cold, mourning weight of his aching heart collapsed deeper into the void every second, and rest was not soon imminent. Rubbing his eyes he sat up. Surely Ella’s mother was mistaken! Was he not rich enough? Honest enough? Good-looking enough? Indeed, Troy passed over desirable –and desiring-- brides every day. Why should he be so denied? The image of that hard, disagreeable woman, aged to unguessable years by the unkind elements and labor, telling him ‘no’ seared wounds into his mind again and again.
Earlier, Kess tried to help with advice. Winter drawing near, the chores easing ever so slowly, they found themselves occasionally frittering twilight hours away fishing, climbing trees, playing games; the idle pleasures of youth. “You are, after all, a bastard,” he offers. “Perhaps Ella’s mother is simply unimpressed with your prospects.” Smacking Troy hard, a wrestling taunt, he smiles, “I would suggest you do something heroic, were you not such a big pussy.”
Pondering this, Troy got up in the early night and donned his twice-altered pants and his thrice-altered shirt. After his boots, he folded his seemingly tiny blanket out of habit, lost in deep thought. There was nothing to heroic to do, it seemed, in this bland farming community.
We barely survive; was this not heroic enough?
The “Beast’s” former lair is still well-known. Looted completely, it was sealed with stones sixteen years hence.
And it was most certainly an evil place even still.
Nonetheless, one by one, Troy mindlessly tossed the stones away. Perhaps a demonstration of courage was in order; were he to retrieve a souvenir from this shunned, ominous place, perhaps it would impress Ella’s mother. Tip the scales. Win her over. And then Ella and he would be wed with her blessing, raising her grandchildren.
He poked his torch into the small hole he had created and dropped it inside, watching carefully. There was nothing to see except more cave. No cobwebs, no life, nothing.
He wiggled in.
It was warmer than he expected. And moist. And the smells were that of fetid, unseen vermin. Were he not so sure the cave was utterly sealed, he would have suspected that maybe the mountain cats were denned here. Maybe bears.
He knew that anything easy to find in this forsaken place would have been stolen long ago. So despite his size, he worked himself into difficult corridors that seemed to loop and climb and drop, sometimes only to pointlessly loop back into a sizable chamber where he had been before. Still, with his innate and uncanny sense of direction, he was never lost, never moments from the tiny entrance in the random maze.
In a tight downward shaft, he began to find bones.
Small, uninteresting ones at first. But the deeper he crawled, the larger they became. An avid hunter, these were bones of animals he had never seen before; long, delicate birdlike ones. Even one of these strange specimens would have fulfilled his original goal most likely; groups would come for miles around for a campfire only to speculate fantastically what The Beast ate, weaving tales told over generations.
But questions arose in his mind. Why are there so many of this same strange animal? And what does this large bird look like? The fact that the size of the bones increased as he persisted downward in the dark made his heart race. How big were the really big ones? Would he find the bones of something of equal size of the beast? What would that be?
Noises.
Scratching. Something heavy against crumbling stone.
He stopped and listened.
Nothing.
The cavern spilled wide suddenly, into a space the torchlight couldn’t illuminate well. He dropped it in front of himself to gauge the depth. It fell for about ten feet, sparking wildly on the ground from the impact. Then with an abrupt stop, it came to rest awkwardly on a pale, jagged surface.
It was the surface of a sea of skeletons. Bones picked so clean they could have passed for snow in the poor light.
He gasped and gaped; this chamber was just so vast; it was like standing under a dark sky.
Dropping his torch here was a mistake obviously. He only had one left, and unless this adventure was over now, he would need one for the winding and cramped way to the cavern’s opened entrance.
But the treasure! Within ten feet of the torch was a bone of such incredible size, it must have been a horse, or at least a creature of equal size. Troy had never actually seen a 'horse' before; this could be proof.
Before long, torch retrieved, he was scrambling across the jagged, ivory surface. In the distance was a strange geometrically organized area that had drawn his curiosity, and he decided that that would be the end of his explorations. He scrabbled deeper into the chamber, boots sinking --sometimes to the knee-- into the grizzly terrain.
In a circle on the biggest bones of all lie scattered big, thick, randomly-shaped shards of some sort. He picked one up.
It was light, yet strangely flat and thick. Too flat to be a bone.
You might think it was an eggshell ...
Bedazzled by the new smell of young human flesh, the hunter glided down in virtually silent circles. Despite being crazed and ravenous by the exotic, delectable meal, it was wary and restrained, picking the moment by instinct.
It came down on the boy perfectly. A certain killstrike.
But Troy, senses alive, was no fool. At the last second he stepped aside as the mammoth predator slammed into the "ground". And in a fraction of a moment the clever boy’s sword was being pulled from the foolish beast’s neck.
He stood in awe of his kill. It was easily fifteen feet long--
Smaller, the next one seized upon the hesitation, clamping down on his torch arm at the elbow. Troy passed into shock as he and the grinning beast pulled at separate angles ... flesh, muscle, and ligaments stripped away from his naked bone, punctuated with a sickening lurch at the wrist.
The third, much smaller blur, lopped at his other arm. Missing badly, he snapped the boy's sword with a sickening, muffled clang.
And then there was another.
And another.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Alas, fair Ella, your mother was right--
Tuesday
Outscourging
Predator Press
[Ethan]
CONGRATULATIONS GOOD PEOPLE OF SYKTYVKAR
We are moving our operations, and from millions have selected your wonderful and wholesome community of Proletariat-loving Сыктывка́р.
This was based on your keen industrial prowess, multi-national trade access, long history of tolerance for good-natured ribbing of political figures, outstanding surplus of livestock, complete unpronounceability, absolute gamekilling Scrabble score, and just overall fun-loving nature.
Bravo!
We’re not exactly sure why you are standing in line already. But if it is for jobs, please start cutting down the trees and stacking them neatly on the South Wall. And make sure they are stacked upright behind the smog factory, and to the west of the Starbucks. By all those goats.
For this, you will be rewarded:
* .04% of a Ruble Per Metric Ton of Your Natural Resources
* Democracy
* Freedom
* Leniency from your Future Oppressors
* Tents
* Tasty Water and
* a Free Subscription to Predator Press
plus many coupons from Bed Bath and Beyond!
There's a Cold War on here people, so let's get moving.
Those Capitalist Pig-Dogs could arrive at any second.
"What? Warsaw is in Poland?" I complain to Cobe.
"Yes sir."
"Well crap ... what do I tell all these people on this Press Release?"
[Ethan]
We are moving our operations, and from millions have selected your wonderful and wholesome community of Proletariat-loving Сыктывка́р.
This was based on your keen industrial prowess, multi-national trade access, long history of tolerance for good-natured ribbing of political figures, outstanding surplus of livestock, complete unpronounceability, absolute gamekilling Scrabble score, and just overall fun-loving nature.
Bravo!
We’re not exactly sure why you are standing in line already. But if it is for jobs, please start cutting down the trees and stacking them neatly on the South Wall. And make sure they are stacked upright behind the smog factory, and to the west of the Starbucks. By all those goats.
For this, you will be rewarded:
* .04% of a Ruble Per Metric Ton of Your Natural Resources
* Democracy
* Freedom
* Leniency from your Future Oppressors
* Tents
* Tasty Water and
* a Free Subscription to Predator Press
plus many coupons from Bed Bath and Beyond!
There's a Cold War on here people, so let's get moving.
Those Capitalist Pig-Dogs could arrive at any second.
"What? Warsaw is in Poland?" I complain to Cobe.
"Yes sir."
"Well crap ... what do I tell all these people on this Press Release?"
Monday
Vacation
Predator Press
[Ethan]
"All right everyone, according to the GPS locator I had surgically implanted in lobo's genitalia, he's in Russia ... or whatever they're calling it now. I'll just turn the power on it to max and check."
[the lights dim]
"Yep," I says, checking the readout, "And I'll bet he's going to be hiding under a table with foil on his head again. He hates when I do that."
"Don't you think he'd notice surgery down there?" asked Cobe.
"You'd think so. But a couple of years ago I told him that really verile men grow a third testicle. Then all I had to do was get him drunk and call in the Radio Shack salesman to install it. lobo was so proud for the next month he wouldn't wear underwear or pants just to show everyone."
Cobe winces, "Ugh ... I remember that."
"Well, if he's going to try and hide from this there's only one thing I can do: We're moving the whole damn business to Russia. Start dimantling everything. You have six hours to get moved."
[Ethan]
"All right everyone, according to the GPS locator I had surgically implanted in lobo's genitalia, he's in Russia ... or whatever they're calling it now. I'll just turn the power on it to max and check."
[the lights dim]
"Yep," I says, checking the readout, "And I'll bet he's going to be hiding under a table with foil on his head again. He hates when I do that."
"Don't you think he'd notice surgery down there?" asked Cobe.
"You'd think so. But a couple of years ago I told him that really verile men grow a third testicle. Then all I had to do was get him drunk and call in the Radio Shack salesman to install it. lobo was so proud for the next month he wouldn't wear underwear or pants just to show everyone."
Cobe winces, "Ugh ... I remember that."
"Well, if he's going to try and hide from this there's only one thing I can do: We're moving the whole damn business to Russia. Start dimantling everything. You have six hours to get moved."
My Unrequited Love is a STUD
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“It’s not impossible,” says RDO. “She’s a prototype. The tiny 'fertile' switch on her back has been fused for weeks, triggering full-blown ovulation. My God man, she could have had hundreds by now simply by osmosis." He pauses thoughtfully. "There must have been some sort of power surge recently that voided her warranty --as well as numerous other implied Extended Service Plans.”
“Get me LOBO on the phone,” says Ethan.
***
“Hey buddy!” says Ethan into the speakerphone. “How is the vacation going?”
“Well to be honest sir, I thought the Bahamas would be a lot warmer,” says the static.
[inaudible]
“What is that rattling sound?” asks Ethan, tapping the speakerphone.
“That would be my spine, sir. Warsaw sucks despite all that bullshit tropical hype.” The voice trails off for a second. “Sir, could you please arrange for me to return quickly? I’m fucking freezing--”
“Sure,” says Ethan, thrilled that everything is so simple. “We need you back for a paternity test anyways.”
“I never met the chick sir,” says the static. “Oh my God I am so cold …”
“It’s Sapphire.”
[pause]
“Sir, this test is coming at a very bad time,” says the disembodied speakerphone. “This place is fantastic, and I’m exploring some amazing career opportunities. Just give me another month or two. Your breaking up quite a bit now. What!?! Sasquach? Oh my GO---!!"
[dial tone]
[Mr I]
“It’s not impossible,” says RDO. “She’s a prototype. The tiny 'fertile' switch on her back has been fused for weeks, triggering full-blown ovulation. My God man, she could have had hundreds by now simply by osmosis." He pauses thoughtfully. "There must have been some sort of power surge recently that voided her warranty --as well as numerous other implied Extended Service Plans.”
“Get me LOBO on the phone,” says Ethan.
“Hey buddy!” says Ethan into the speakerphone. “How is the vacation going?”
“Well to be honest sir, I thought the Bahamas would be a lot warmer,” says the static.
[inaudible]
“What is that rattling sound?” asks Ethan, tapping the speakerphone.
“That would be my spine, sir. Warsaw sucks despite all that bullshit tropical hype.” The voice trails off for a second. “Sir, could you please arrange for me to return quickly? I’m fucking freezing--”
“Sure,” says Ethan, thrilled that everything is so simple. “We need you back for a paternity test anyways.”
“I never met the chick sir,” says the static. “Oh my God I am so cold …”
“It’s Sapphire.”
[pause]
“Sir, this test is coming at a very bad time,” says the disembodied speakerphone. “This place is fantastic, and I’m exploring some amazing career opportunities. Just give me another month or two. Your breaking up quite a bit now. What!?! Sasquach? Oh my GO---!!"
[dial tone]
Bombshell
Predator Press
[COBE]
Sapphire slipped into the office quietly. “Cobe, is LOBO gone on his vacation?”
“Yes,” he sighs. “And I feel like we are all on vacation for the next ten weeks.”
Suddenly, he realizes Sapphire is crying.
“Oh my God Sapphire,” he says, leaping to his feet. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“Cobe, can I tell you something you can never tell another human being?”
“Of course, my dear. Anything.”
Here comes the wind up ...
“I’m pregnant!” she wails.
... and we are outta here.
[COBE]
Sapphire slipped into the office quietly. “Cobe, is LOBO gone on his vacation?”
“Yes,” he sighs. “And I feel like we are all on vacation for the next ten weeks.”
Suddenly, he realizes Sapphire is crying.
“Oh my God Sapphire,” he says, leaping to his feet. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“Cobe, can I tell you something you can never tell another human being?”
“Of course, my dear. Anything.”
Here comes the wind up ...
“I’m pregnant!” she wails.
... and we are outta here.
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' … !”
[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' … !”
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