Yeah, Thanks For That Whole "Gravity" Thing

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Thanks to Isaac Newtron inventing gravity, my daring plan to escape the hospital by jumping out of the eleventh story window hurt like hell. Next thing I know, I hear an ambulance engine start, the sirens go off, the thing drives sixteen feet and then screeches to a halt next to me.

And then a bunch of assholes drag me right back into the hospital.

This is going to be tougher than I thought.

Fuck you, Isaac Newtron.

The Cathouse Mouse

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m really disappointed in the lack of public outcry on this blog as of late; according to ‘Spellcheck’, that last post brazenly said “breast” at least twice.

I, a devout religious follower, am deeply offended for some reason.

I would’ve at least sent an angry email to us assholes were I not forgotten in the ICU due to Santa’s treachery, blinking my post in Morse code (like mom taught me) to a registered nurse.

You all should be ashamed of yourselves.

It Could Happen

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

I brought Bertha.

There wasn’t really anything "special" behind this decision; she was just another stripper-slash-college student that seems to come standard issue with a Platinum card.

Still, she was magnetically attractive, unpredictably sweet, and my current favorite.

She liked to show off her legs, and the dress she wore did not disappoint; the slit in the side stopped just under her muscular hips. I must say, she was the showstopping eye-candy of the entire night. Further, Bertha seemed to require less drinking to tolerate listening to -for a stripper-slash-college student her age.

And I wasn’t the only one that noticed.

Phoebe -sitting with us by virtue of a seating fluke- and I slam Wild Turkey for hours, while the charming Bertha nursed whiskey sours.

I like how they taste on her breath.

I slow down a little when it dawns on me how well Phoebe and Bertha are getting along. Lingering stares, affectionate giggles ... I’m almost surprised when they don’t go together when Bertha excuses herself for the bathroom.

But Phoebe was clocking me.

“Wow, Mr I,” says Phoebe, with a strange, electrically charged look on her face. “I’m really impressed!”

“We’re not,” I smile, “competing over the same girl, are we?”

Phoebe pauses, calculating. “Of course not,” she says. “But she’s fucking hot.”


***

“Look,” I says abruptly, shutting the door to my office. I grab the entire bottle of bourbon from the bar. “It’s very hot watching you two flirt. But our colleagues are at this party.” I focus on Phoebe, “That whole dance floor scene—“

Tat

Predator Press

[Cobe]

If a man’s character can be judged by inexplicable acts of compassion, Ethan is indeed a great man.

To say my house burned down is somewhat understated; where my house was is now a smoldering crater extending four city blocks. A city bus lies in the charred concrete hole that was my basement.

Rather than going to work on Christmas, I rescued all 41 of the passengers.

This, understandably, resulted in my prompt termination.

It’s bad enough being homeless, jobless, and starving during the holidays … but I’ve spent the last six months neglecting friends and family too. That was inexcusable. Still, they were all very gracious, sending burlap bags and only slightly-soiled sheets so I can make myself warm clothing.

As I boiled my ornately-wrapped Christmas bonus from Predator Press --collapsible cardboard banker boxes-- for dinner, Ethan had an apparent "change of heart". He says I can still work here, but I will have to accept a pay cut and transfer to one of the arctic listening posts monitoring our battered planetary defenses.

Mmmm … battered defenses.

Catlike Reflexes

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I’ve escaped the hospital to give you the football picks.

Plus, if I don’t show up for work between now and the 31st, my insurance will run out. I don’t know if you’ve ever been thrown into a dumpster full of biological waste and used hypodermics before, but let me tell you: it’s not pleasant.

The Bears are playing the Packers tonight, and I’m leaning toward the Packers.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not rooting for the Packers. But Brett is a retiring and jazzed veteran seasoned on playing against the Bears; he’s gonna rip into any sloppy playing he sees.

Maybe my Morse code is a little rusty though. I thought I had blinked all this fairly rationaly up on the eleventh floor, but Nurse Garrison seemed to feel like I was rooting for the Soviets. I heard that rubber glove snap, and reflexively leapt out the nearest window.

I hope this doesn't bust my laptop.

Merry Christmas!

Flea Flicker

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

LOBO is strangely absent on this fine day.

For a guy who is virtually unemployed, sleeps till 10 in the morning, et cetera, he sure doesn't have very much time for anything it seems; under Ethan’s instruction, I went to his house … but he didn't answer the door. On his doorknob was a "Sorry We Missed You" note from a plumbing company, and tiny handwritten scrawl at the bottom said something angry about a quarter.

His absence is doubly odd and distressing in that this is the day Predator Press debuts our new game “Killball” on a variety of obscure cable channels. Of the three of us as I recall, LOBO was the most excited; this marked his first time on television he didn't have to eat bugs or marry a millionaire.

Nonetheless, without our tie-breaking official, we continued flying the "missing man" formation. Assembled below us, suited up and ready to play, are all the members of the National Killball League: Max, Brighta and Vetter.

Currently, it’s a very small league.

“Now how do we play again?” Max yells up to Ethan.

“C’mon guys,” yells Ethan. Exasperated, he lowers his rifle. “It couldn’t be simpler! All you have to do is get across the mined playing field by leaping or swinging across all eight of the flaming, acid-filled pits of starving robot alligators in order to intercept the 'Skimmer'. The job of the defense is to keep the Skimmer,” Ethan points at a nervous-looking Vetter who is strapped into a giant slingshot-like device, “from breaking the plane of the End Zone, also referred to as that brick wall over there. If he breaks that plane, that will incur a penalty against the other team.”

“How do we score?”

“Score?”

Suddenly, Ethan’s cell rings.

“Really?” he says into the phone. “On Christmas? Wow that’s terrible. Okay.” He hangs up, and tugs my sleeve.

“Cobe called off. Says his house burned down.”

“Called off?” I says. “Wow. He is so fired.”

Ethan blows the whistle. "Play ball!" he yells.

"What ball?" yells Brighta.

I watch Ethan rub his temples. "Well, don't worry about Cobe, sir. What kind of an asshole works on Christmas anyway?"