Minnesotan Confesses to Bridge Conspiracy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, you heard it here first!

No one was more shocked than we to find Terri Terri brashly claiming Minnesotan responsibility for the bridge collapse that has gripped the entire nation in morbid terror of it's own diabolical highway system.

In a chilling, cryptic dispatch to Predator Press composed of glued-on magazine letters, she left the following comment on our Saturday, August 4 post: "Yeah, us Minnesotans just had nothing better to do than irritate the President so we decided to collapse one of our bridges just to get him off his lazy ass. Wheeee! That was fun!"

In effort to scientifically measure the average Minnesotan capacity for evil, we have compiled some startling statistics that our friends to the West may be trying to surpass:

* Cancer: 556,902 (2006)
* Iraq: 30,000
* Domestic firearm fatalities: 29,573 (2006)
* Katrina (2005): 800
* Automotive fatalities, New York (2006): 750
* Domestic peanut allergy-related fatalities (2006): 150
* Evil Minnesotan bridges (2007): 5-8
* Domestic shark attack fatalities 1948-2005: 9

As you can clearly see, the sinister Minnesotans are clearly at pace to overtake the much-ballyhooed and overrated shark. But unless they have 30 more bridges, they cannot possibly expect to wreak more wanton death and carnage than your garden-variety Chinese toy factory on mandatory overtime.

We recommend "mixing it up" a bit to beef up the numbers: by combining second hand smoke and diets high in trans-fatty acids, you'll be caught up with Katrina in no time!

Bush Misses Cartoons, Eggos Over 'Stupid Bridge'

Predator Press

"It's all just stupid," Bush complains to an aide. "This stupid country
has a stupid crisis every goddamn week. Well, I'm getting sick of it."

Predator Press Interviews: Some Guy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I don't want to do an interview today.

I want to gloat.

All you people that were sayin' "Oh, that LOBO ... submarine ninjas? He's gone completely crackers now," owe me one Big Fat apology; CNN reported today that submarine ninjas have been captured in New York.

In your face all you skeptics; I told you so!

And I understand the desire to doubt me when you're troubled with nuisance 'facts' and stuff; I will not hold it against you. Predator Press loves it's dumb readers too, and with 89% of the same guaranteed ardor and zeal that our smart readers enjoy.

Has the precious Wall Street Journal ever promised you anything like that?

Hm?

But yeah, here, at the pinnacle of ardent gloatability, Ethan makes me do an interview.

So here it is:

LOBO: So who the fuck are you?

Some Guy: I'm Dan Albern, Editor of The Pianosa Times.

LOBO: Well, Predator Press isn't hiring.

Some Guy: I'm not here for that kind of interview.

LOBO: No, of course you're not. You're here for the kind of 'interview' that screws me outta press time for the capture of the New York submarine ninjas.

Some Guy: Actually, that's not true. I understand you were also involved with the apprehension of the notorious Legless Jim.

LOBO: Who?

Some Guy: He has just been made eligible for the death penalty.

LOBO: Serves him right, probably.

Some Guy: How did you get the name 'LOBO'?

LOBO: Legend has it a gamma Northern Timber Wolf chewed me out of her own cervix, 'cuz she thought I was malignant.

Some Guy: Really?

LOBO: Got the scars to prove it.

Some Guy: Oh my God, those are horrible!

LOBO: From then on, I was raised by the Chippewa Tribe until I got adopted.

Some Guy: Fascinating. An orphan is given the honorary status of Sherrif of Pianosa.

LOBO: What?

Some Guy: That's why I'm here.

LOBO: Sheriff LOBO?

Some Guy: Precisely.

LOBO: I don't like it; it's not very memorable at all. Can I be Sheriff Chainsaw instead?

Some Guy: Probably.

LOBO: Can I kill people?

Some Guy: Only when they are engaged in the commission of a crime.

LOBO: Can I make it a crime to wear a thong if you're a fat, hairy freakish descendant of Bigfoot wearin rollerblades?

Some Guy: Our readers will be very disappointed. We've invited many of them to the inauguration ceremony.

LOBO: Where I'll settle the whole damn mystery once and for all.

Some Guy: But as a crimefighter of local renown, we're doing a story on the man who was nominated 'Honorary Sheriff of Pianosa'. You're supposed to be a forward-thinking noble vanguard in pursuit of justice.

LOBO: Wait. You're interviewing me?

My Chi is Kickass Today, Thank You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

After a mere two weeks of intensive training and meditation, I am back.

Down to between 16 and 20 heartbeats a day, my doctor was concerned and tested my blood. And as always, my blood got an A+, clearly showing it's intellectual superiority over all the other stupid and inferior bloods.

I'm ready for action, baby; my Chi is so jazzed, when having lunch at Burger King with friends today the cook mistook me for a relative of Steven Segal. Swear to God. Insulted, my Chi cursed the poor bastard as I was being roughly escorted out of the kitchen; no doubt his grandchildren will be born horribly disfigured and forever unemployable.

And as the treacherous French poisoned me with deep-fried pointy potato sticks, Heartbeat Number 11 was about 40 minutes later than expected. It was then I started checking out LadyTerri. I mean, she's hot and smart and charming, and dating this guy --Mitch or something. And I'm thinking 'What the hell is she doing dating such a loser? This guy is about as interesting as a blackened potato chip!'

Well, it turns out her blood gets A+s too. It just came up somehow. And as I rummaged about her purse while she was in the bathroom, I discovered that her driver's license says she's an 'Organ Donor'. My god; the courage of this magnificent woman with two pristine kidneys and a pancreas to die for! Me? I'll never sign that 'Organ Donor' thing; I'm too afraid they'll suddenly cure disembowelment, and wake me up on cinderblocks missing an eye or something.

Live it up there Mitch.

You're a lucky guy.

To You

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Knowing I can't speak to each and every one of you readers as often as I would like tears me up inside like a rusty, jagged catheter being ripped out by a startled Clydesdale; the glamorous lifestyle of an often-cloned, globetrotting international millionaire playboy-slash-spy at war with Santa is a deceptively heavy burden.

So at least once, I feel I should share my most heartfelt and candid inner-most feelings to my favorite people: the selflessly-loyal, unsung readers.

That message is:

My personal safety is an issue of National Security.

Look. If the submarine ninjas capture me and 57 Comanche helicopters whisk me off to a nearby aircraft carrier for interrogation, you're all pretty fucked; the second Doctor Hans hooks up electrodes to my nipples, I'm gonna sing like a canary on cocaine. I'm telling that asshole everything. Hell, I might even make shit up.

"Doctor Hans," I would say. "Please put away your chainsaw scalpel and sodium pentathol, and get me a pencil and a map." And then, drawing little 'X'es on everything I'll say, "There are 12,115 troops over there, and there's a poorly-defended nuclear facility over here. Doctor Hans, has a handsome bastard such as yourself ever thought of being in movies? I know where Steven Spielberg lives. Hey, do you guys like pizza? I love pizza."

Kickin' Ass and Taking Naps

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I'm silent.

Undetectable.

--and it was Mr. Submarine Ninja's last mistake to underestimate my stealth and guile.

"Shit!" he screams, sprawling in the darkness. "LOBO, what the fuck?"

"Doc Mike?" I says aghast. "You're a submarine ninja?"

"A what? What the hell is going on here?" he demands.

"Well, thanks to your catlike reflexes, now I have to get up to break your neck." I grunt while climbing to my feet --this martial arts stuff is really tough work. "Where are you? Hold still."

Doc flips the switch, and searing light blinds me. "C'mon Doc," I implore. "No dirty tricks. I would've expected you to die with some dignity."

"Why were you sprawled out on the floor like that in the dark?"

"You, my so-called-friend, have fallen prey to one of my deadliest moves. I call it the Bloated Starfish."

"I tripped on you!"

"Fell victim."

"Tripped!"

"Yeah, okay," I says, rolling my eyes. "Whatever".

"What have you done to your apartment?"

"I've converted it into my Dojo. I figured having a lot of trophies around would make me more menacing."

"Where'd you get them?"

"Garage sales," I says.

Doc inspects an inscription: it reads 'World's Greatest Dad'.

"So the neon sign out front that reads 'Chinese Food Restaurant' isn't a mistake?"

"That sign I stole says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'?" I says, deflated. "I was really hoping it would say 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art.'"

"No," sighs Doc. "It says 'Chinese Food Restaurant'."

"Odds were equally good," I point out, "that the sign would have read 'LOBO's School of Bone-Crushing, Testicle-Ripping, Deadly Self Defense Art'."

"It's in English too," says Doc. "Right under the Kanji."

"Maybe they're not bilingual," I offer.

"LOBO, Ethan asked me to check on you," says Doc. "Says your talking crazy. Something about submarine ninjas."

I guffaw. "Crazy like a Peking Duck Master," I point out. Cautiously I approach the window, and stare out into the inky silence. "--but they're out there. I can sense their movements." Grabbing a flashlight off the shelf, I stab light into the parking lot below and yell, "Hear that you bastards!? I can sense your movements you know!"

"LOBO," says Doc. "I think you've finally-"

"Oh my GOD," I exclaim.

"What is it?" asks Doc, startled.

"Someone opened a Chinese Food Restaurant here!"

Internet Swag

Predator Press