Predator Press
[The Shart]
Like any other Superhero, The Shart is ever-tormented by tragic internal struggle.
But The Shart is new at this "Superhero" gig. As soon as The Shart thinks of a cool one, The Shart will let you know.
For now, The Shart is busy seeking out the Pianosian Syndicate: a worldwide wretched and lethal bunch of organized cutthroat thugs that’ll poke your eye out sooner’n look at you.
The Shart didn't find them under The Shart's bed.
… In a few hours, The Shart will probably check the rest of the bedroom ...
Sunday
"THE SHART" BITES
Predator Press Unaware that he is about to be apprehended and beaten severely, notorious "Shovelman" attempts to steal snow from the State Capitol of beloved Pianosa
--all to fuel Mister Cold Miser's sinister groundhog-killing "Doomsday Device"
Beware Miscreants!
Predator Press
[The Shart]
As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy, tight-fitting rubber suit, seeking out evil and injustice that must be smoten.
Wherever there’s a hot chick in danger of some creepy guy stalking her in the night, I’ll be there.
Swift, lethal and tenacious --like the shark-- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I’m smart.
I am The Shart.
[The Shart]
As metropolitan Pianosa slumbers peacefully, I prowl the shadows in a sexy, tight-fitting rubber suit, seeking out evil and injustice that must be smoten.
Wherever there’s a hot chick in danger of some creepy guy stalking her in the night, I’ll be there.
Swift, lethal and tenacious --like the shark-- I'm always one step ahead of the authorities because I’m smart.
I am The Shart.
Saturday
Secret War
Predator Press
[LOBO]
In the subseqent Lobonian trial, it was found that Frank was completely innocent, and that he killed Doctor Dentin Whatsit in self-defense.
The victim was British, after all.
But as they hauled him away to Guantanamo Bay, Frank somehow let it slip that I possess weapons of mass destruction.
I swear to God after I built them, my mom said "You'll poke your eye out!", and I haven't thought about them since.
It's really my mom's fault if you think about it ...
[LOBO]
In the subseqent Lobonian trial, it was found that Frank was completely innocent, and that he killed Doctor Dentin Whatsit in self-defense.
The victim was British, after all.
But as they hauled him away to Guantanamo Bay, Frank somehow let it slip that I possess weapons of mass destruction.I swear to God after I built them, my mom said "You'll poke your eye out!", and I haven't thought about them since.
It's really my mom's fault if you think about it ...
DOT Matrix
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone. “We’ve got a Code Four in progress!”
“What?” Ethan says, alarmed. “Frank killed a DOT Officer in the break room with your Dukes of Hazzard lunch box because you were about to get busted for Felony Tax Fraud, and you’re trying to find someplace to hide the body again?”
“But this time it’s different!" I protest. "He was British.”
[LOBO]
“Ethan,” I says into the phone. “We’ve got a Code Four in progress!”
“What?” Ethan says, alarmed. “Frank killed a DOT Officer in the break room with your Dukes of Hazzard lunch box because you were about to get busted for Felony Tax Fraud, and you’re trying to find someplace to hide the body again?”
“But this time it’s different!" I protest. "He was British.”
Ink
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Writing off 50,000 gallons of blog ink on my taxes as a business expense seemed like a good idea at the time, but the decision has haunted me ever since.
Like today, for instance. It’s hard enough to write this crap … but there’s a whole logistical side to it as well; this week I spent about sixty hours –and part of my Saturday no less—at the warehouse, making sure things “tick”.
In the break room, I was peeling through a day-old newspaper and absently making small talk with one of our maintenance employees, Frank Kowalski. Frank -complete with his tattoos, shaven head, and Insane Clown Posse attire- was 'rendered' a good listener, due mostly to having broken most of his teeth over a gigantic metal stud tongue piecing.
Deceptively intelligent, he is widely regarded by me as the eyes and ears of the whole complex.
Suddenly, this handlebar-mustached old guy I’ve never seen before struts confidently in and flashes his badge.
“Are you David Curr?” he asks in a thick, foreign accent.
“I’m LOBO,” I says, trying to be cagey.
“My name is Destry Dentin,” he asks, squeezing the shit out of my hand. “I’m here from the Department of Transportation.”
“I’m sorry,” I say rather politely. “The Department of Transportation you say? I can barely understand you. Your butchery of our fine American language is terrible. What kind of accent is that?”
“It’s British.”
“Jesus, no wonder. I understand that the educational systems in those third world countries can be pretty sketchy. I’ll try to be patient, but speak slowly, and try to enunciate a little better; you're feeble grasp on the English languish is totally crap-o-rama, and my first impression of you might've been that you were a complete idiot were I not a worldly and educated dude." I slap him at the top of his arm to 'drive home' these helpful nuggets of wisdom. "This isn't China or France, pal ... in this country, we don't do gibberish.”
“Mr. Curr,” he says. “I’m here to inspect your hazardous material storage facilities.”
“Why would I keep my laundry at work?”
“I’m talking about the 50,000 gallons of flammable UN1210.”
“My what?”
“Your ink.”
“Oh!” I says. “Um, we’re out. Used it all.”
“You used 50,000 gallons?”
“Yep. We’re very industrious bloggers.”
“How did you dispose of the empty drums?”
“We, ah, gave them to our Waste Management Department, where the were disposed of in the most expensive, environmentally sound and legal recycling program we could find.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s amazing if you think about it. They take all that steel and grind it up and turn it into baby food for poor people or something.”
“Is that so?”
I hold up two fingers. “Scouts Honor.”
“You’re a Boy Scout?”
“Technically. If you’re still a Cub Scout when you turn seventeen, they kinda grandfather you in.”
“Well, I would certainly like to speak to this ‘Waste Management Team'.”
Frank, until then pretending not to listen, set down his issue of High Times. “What would you like to know?”
Fuck.
[LOBO]
Writing off 50,000 gallons of blog ink on my taxes as a business expense seemed like a good idea at the time, but the decision has haunted me ever since.
Like today, for instance. It’s hard enough to write this crap … but there’s a whole logistical side to it as well; this week I spent about sixty hours –and part of my Saturday no less—at the warehouse, making sure things “tick”.
In the break room, I was peeling through a day-old newspaper and absently making small talk with one of our maintenance employees, Frank Kowalski. Frank -complete with his tattoos, shaven head, and Insane Clown Posse attire- was 'rendered' a good listener, due mostly to having broken most of his teeth over a gigantic metal stud tongue piecing.
Deceptively intelligent, he is widely regarded by me as the eyes and ears of the whole complex.
Suddenly, this handlebar-mustached old guy I’ve never seen before struts confidently in and flashes his badge.
“Are you David Curr?” he asks in a thick, foreign accent.
“I’m LOBO,” I says, trying to be cagey.
“My name is Destry Dentin,” he asks, squeezing the shit out of my hand. “I’m here from the Department of Transportation.”
“I’m sorry,” I say rather politely. “The Department of Transportation you say? I can barely understand you. Your butchery of our fine American language is terrible. What kind of accent is that?”
“It’s British.”
“Jesus, no wonder. I understand that the educational systems in those third world countries can be pretty sketchy. I’ll try to be patient, but speak slowly, and try to enunciate a little better; you're feeble grasp on the English languish is totally crap-o-rama, and my first impression of you might've been that you were a complete idiot were I not a worldly and educated dude." I slap him at the top of his arm to 'drive home' these helpful nuggets of wisdom. "This isn't China or France, pal ... in this country, we don't do gibberish.”
“Mr. Curr,” he says. “I’m here to inspect your hazardous material storage facilities.”
“Why would I keep my laundry at work?”
“I’m talking about the 50,000 gallons of flammable UN1210.”
“My what?”
“Your ink.”
“Oh!” I says. “Um, we’re out. Used it all.”
“You used 50,000 gallons?”
“Yep. We’re very industrious bloggers.”
“How did you dispose of the empty drums?”
“We, ah, gave them to our Waste Management Department, where the were disposed of in the most expensive, environmentally sound and legal recycling program we could find.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s amazing if you think about it. They take all that steel and grind it up and turn it into baby food for poor people or something.”
“Is that so?”
I hold up two fingers. “Scouts Honor.”
“You’re a Boy Scout?”
“Technically. If you’re still a Cub Scout when you turn seventeen, they kinda grandfather you in.”
“Well, I would certainly like to speak to this ‘Waste Management Team'.”
Frank, until then pretending not to listen, set down his issue of High Times. “What would you like to know?”
Fuck.
Friday
The Best Policy
To: Ethan Hawly
From: The Docter
Date: 02/22/07
Re: LOBO
We regret to inform you that your employee, LOBO –aka “Lance Steelpipe” as written on his verile insurance forms—will not be able to come to work today, as he has been stricken by a fatal, incurable disease and will probably die from it within hours.
We will probably release him back to duty in March.
Maybe.
From: The Docter
Date: 02/22/07
Re: LOBO
We regret to inform you that your employee, LOBO –aka “Lance Steelpipe” as written on his verile insurance forms—will not be able to come to work today, as he has been stricken by a fatal, incurable disease and will probably die from it within hours.
We will probably release him back to duty in March.
Maybe.
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