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Predator Press

A Slicing Device

A Predator Press adaptation of a 2006 Predator Press adaptation of "A Christmas Carol", written by some other guy.

[LOBO]

My first goal as an "author", I suppose, is to make an impression on people's hearts.

Truth be told, I hate writing. But I'm too short and scrawny to leave impressions on people's foreheads where they tend to be much more effective, and cinderblocks get heavy after a while. Ever try to nail that oblivious jerk hogging the whole fast lane at 56 miles an hour with a cinderblock?

I rest my case.

I've had to learn to be flexible, and adapt my impression-leaving skills.

Firstly, I'm not buying a single Christmas present. At this point, just going to the grocery store is a major pain in the ass. Today at Kmart, I hadda throw six elbows in four minutes just to buy a gallon of Snickers-flavored ice cream, four boxes of Twinkies, a three layer chocolate cake and a six pack of Diet Pepsi.

Either I'm getting older, or those little old ladies are getting tougher. And some of them got back up once or twice! I ended up leaving them spitting and hissing in Isle 14 thanks to an improvised oil slick composed of Snickers ice cream, Twinkies, chocolate cake, and Diet Pepsi.

This won't end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I'll once again be fighting for meals with crowds of people returning the stuff they've already inconvenienced me buying. And they will be twice as cranky because of futile and unrealistic New Years Resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam.

In truth, Holidays make everyone completely self-centered homicidal jerks that only screw everything up for me, and I hope God punishes them severely for hijacking my breakfast today with their selfishness. Maybe a nice convenient electrical fire or something. I mean, there's a reason we don't have trees in our houses already, right? They're flammable! And every one of these pagans have a living room sprawled with Stetson Cologne Molotov cocktails, augmented by eight pounds of wrapping paper and a tinsel primer. It would be easy for vengeful Almighty God to smite the crap out of them.

As He should, I might add.

... I wouldn't give God any guff this year. As always, we at Predator Press stand 100% firmly behind Him.

Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Isn't it enough to just say "Merry Christmas" you jerk?

[*sigh*]


***

So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.

"LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!"

"Who?"

"The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture ..."

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Because I'm a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?"

Hah! He said 'dickens'.

"It's 3am you jerk," I says.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I'm way behind schedule."

"What happened to those other two dead guys, 'Christmas Past' and 'Christmas Plus' or whatever?"

"They got downsized in July."

"Well, they were probably pretty lazy then," I reply. "Dead people are notoriously unreliable."

"I'm here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways."

"Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--"

"Let's go," he persists. "I'm on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?"


***

"Where are we?" I ask.

"We're at your place a year from now."

"My god it's huge!"

The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. "This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley."

"Wow!" I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. "That's really cool."

Over the massive, solid oak doors, 'CASA DE LOBO' is inscribed.

The ghost scratches his head, "Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in."

"What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!"

"We're invisible. Nobody can see us."

"Cool," I concede glumly.

Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.

And rabies.

"Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We're not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks."

"But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?"

"I don't think so."

"You know, for a guy who is already dead, you're pretty inhibited."

"Maybe."


***

It's a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.

Which means they can't move.

I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver's side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.

We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck's rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It's a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.

And that's when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.

It's Cobe.

"Is he--?" I ask the specter.

"Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again."

"A hot tub, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did he get it delivered?"

"Yes. And he installed it."

I shake my head, "Well, I've got to tell you. I'm not seeing a downside here."

"You're an asshole," says the ghost.

Measured Results

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Dude," I says into the phone. "That was amazing. I mean, 'Ox Nuts' is going to be a major bestseller. Maybe even a movie. It's genius! I don't think I've 'punched the clown' while crying this much since, like, September ... who knew you could write like that?"

"But I post on the blog two or three times a year," says Mr. I.

"Yeah, but who reads that tripe? 'Ox Nuts' is big! Can you put in some explosions and helicopter chases? I don't want to infringe on your art, but a scene where Ox fights a giant bug or something might help get some of your boring soppy romance edited out."

"It's supposed to be a love story, you moron."

"Well how about some buxom Nordic chicks in Viking helmets, wielding electric battle axes that go 'bla-WANGGGGGG--'?"

[long pause]

"Maybe."

Ox Nuts

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"Oh Ox Nuts, my love," cries Gwendolyn. "The ocean is so vast, and yet here it is, for us and us only. Our love is captured forever in this meaningless, private moment on a magnificent beach." She unties her flowing, golden hair. "Even the stars have turned away from us tonight. Take me now, you savage lustful beast! Before you are captured." Her flimsy clothing slips over her pointed nipples, her curves, finally falling around her bejewelled ankles. "I want to have experienced your mighty passion, so I can remember it fondly while you are tortured and executed by my abusive boyfriend, the vile Prince of Zanzibar. Ox Nuts, ride me like a wild stallion ..."

Idiot Bag

Predator Press

[Mr Insanity]

"You attacked firemen?" I says. "What in heaven's name possessed you to attack firemen?"

"THE BAG gave me 'firemen pork'," shrugs LOBO. "I do not question THE BAG. Ever. You would be wise to do the same."

"The bag? What bag?"

"The bag of words I pull from when I'm trying to come up with an idea."

"Every time you need an idea for a story, you pull words at random? I call bullshit."

"Behold!" says LOBO, thumping a heavy sack on his cluttered desk. "Bask in the splendor, ye non-disbeliever."

"Does it work?"

"Try it out," says the screwball. "What kind of story are you working on?"

"Let's say, hypothetically, a love story."

"You pansy."

"What?"

"I said 'Ooo, fancy'."

LOBO closed his eyes, as if in a trance.

"Oh for God's sake--"

"Silence!" LOBO demands. "Oh, mighty and wise bag. Divulge unto us your creative genius, that of which we are so devoided!"

He pulls out two slips of paper. "The title of your romance epic shall henceforth be named," he opens his hand, "Ox Nuts."

"Ox Nuts."

"Yes," he says decidedly. "Ox Nuts."

Deck the Halls to Hide the Murder Holes, Tra La-La

Predator Press

[LOBO]


December.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

Now that Thanksgiving has come and gone, it's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.

I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print.

That fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When that prick sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my cookies 'an milk this year, whammo, he's gettin a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.

Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then! It's not like I said I was going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried-chicken scarfing king?

God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.

"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children."

Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid, I stole our family's entire month of food stamps and had four pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack brought to the house. There wasn't anyplace to keep it unnoticed except the neighbor's swimming pool.

I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to dry his burning eyes with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal downward clockwise spiral smack into the sour cream.

If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned.

I'm a hero if you think about it.

We don't need any more of Santa's "selective generosity" crap: this year, the fat man pays up.

In spades.

The Legend of Cat Strangler

Predator Press

[LOBO]

If you think about it, as the head of Maintenance for the museum warehouse, I had the access to steal pretty much anything I wanted. Keys, alarm codes, you name it.

But I purposely avoided knowing anything.

Hundreds of thousands of nondescript crates of history have moved in and out of my facility in the ginger care of my forklift skills, and I knew them only by number; preserving the mystery romanticized the bad hours and mediocre pay.

I like to think that at some point, I might've moved the very Arc of the Covenant.

One night my phone rang, and a truck driver told me he was an hour away from the museum; 'The Item' couldn't be moved by boat as initially planned.

"No problem," I says. If anything, that will attract even less attention at this hour. Hanging up, I dressed quickly in a well-rehearsed sleepy fog.

Armed with a thermos full of black instant coffee, I set out to meet the incoming load.



***

In the strange silence, you could hear that truck coming for miles.

It was exactly on time.

Rumbling into view, the dark truck blinded my in her headlights; the last thing I glimpsed before a colorless, painful tide of light was a man leaning out of the passenger side window of the cab, leveling a large automatic weapon.

The truck stopped abruptly, and the air breaks screamed a metallic wail. "One move," a shrill voice called over the thundering diesel engine, "and you got no more head!"

Standing in the wide open with my hands behind my head as instructed, I called out the code: "How were the Wisconsin Dells?"

The rifle disappeared into the truck for an astonishingly short moment as the passenger door opened, and the figure jumped to the concrete. Rifle still trained on me, he closed the distance between us quickly. "I'm going to need to see some ID, sir."

He was a young pup dressed in camouflage fatigues.

"No problem," I says. With a subtle nod, I indicate the asphalt about twenty five feet in front of me. "My wallet is right there."

As the boy inspected my wallet, things relaxed; the driver of the semi started easing the trailer to the docks. "Pleased to meet you Mister Jones," he says casually.

"My name is James," I correct.

The kid laughs, lowering his gun. He gives me back my wallet. "We'll be done in less than four minutes, sir. Please stay in plain sight." Quickly moving to the dock, he shouldered the gun and began giving hand symbols to guide the driver.

It slammed into the rectangle of Dock 17, and sealed perfectly.

While the boy was extending the lever and beginning the arduous task of lowering the trailer's legs, I heard the driver of the truck disembarking. He pulled a heavy lever deep behind one of the truck wheels releasing the 'fifth wheel', took my signature on a clipboard without word or ceremony, and the two were roaring off loudly into the night.

In exactly four minutes.



***

I didn't know Phillips and Rodriguez were both up for museum tenure at the time. In fact, the last time I had even seen either one of them was on the rare occasion I had to go to the museum itself. Both were professional, friendly, and wildly brilliant as is the hallmark of the museum staff in general.

I'm kind of a glorified custodian of sorts. Aside from the occasional personal desire to watch their precious cargo being loaded and unloaded, the fact that they knew my name at all wasn't by any particular reputation, but by simple repeated exposure.

But Doctor Phillips one day, having observed how much access I had, offered me an untraceable $1,000 a month to ensure he always had secret access to the place anytime he wanted.

So I simply neglected to report that Dock 11 was badly in need of repair, and had a crumbling 20 inch gap on the top behind the rubber cushions; a vulnerable, virtually undetectable spot accessible only by climbing over the top of a docked trailer and slipping behind. It was easy money. All I really had to do was make sure there was always a trailer parked there.

I had Dock 11 repaired the same year Phillips disappeared without a trace.

The money stopped coming anyway.



***

Today, sixteen years later, Doctor Rodriguez is not only tenured, but is up for Board of Directors; the museum has been doing very well and is facing an unprecedented number of retirements.

People, for various reasons, are wanting to "go out on top".

Reflecting the success, at this point I'm sweeping the warehouse floors for about $20,000 more a year due to a few college courses. I'm now referred to as a "Curator".

When I'm there, I turn off most building security off by sections, coordinating where my activity will be so as not to trip alarms and unnecessarily bring police.

When the South alarm went off, I sent the "safe" code almost routinely. It was almost certainly rats, or possibly the salt water wreaking havoc on the aging electronics; no one had been in the South Wing for years, and there was nothing there of any value. The South Wing was where Docks 1-20 were, and they had been mortared over many expansions ago due to rapidly evolving OSHA laws.

Eventually, I found my way over to check the traps.

Near the only entrance, I found the emergency lights on, and a broken old vagrant stumbling through the maze of stacked cargo.

"Sir," I says politely. Triggering my silent alarm. "I don't know how you got in here-"

"James?" says a crackling voice from the figure. By the way his head turned, I could tell he was blind. The man staggered toward me with a gnarled, heavy looking cane. "James, is that you?"

My heart stopped. I knew that voice.

"James!" demanded the man. He waved his knobby cane vaguely in my direction, balancing on what remain of his horribly wobbly and twisted legs, obviously once broken and healed in impossible and distorted directions. "Goddamn it James. I have so sought the sound of your voice!"

He shuffled into the light, and I saw his face.

It was inhumanly old and yet alive. Long white hair and a beard framed a barely-toothed, snaggled smile. Both eyes were shut, and one looked slightly misshapen and bulging, like an egg.

"Doctor Phillips?" I stammered.

The decrepit husk of a man cackled in delight as I caught him from falling.

"Yes."

"You smell terrible!" I says. "Where have you been?"

Unexpectedly, the old man doesn't try to support any of his weight; despite his whithered 90-pound frame I struggle for a moment, feeling him lurch from weak coughs as I try to lower him gently to the ground.

"Where haven't I?" he grins horribly at me as I lower his head to the floor.

"Sir," I says. "You need a doctor real bad."

"No," says the man softly. "I just need a second to rest."

This man is no threat, I conclude. This man has only a few moments left.

"The cops will be here in a few minutes," I confess.

"I know," says the doctor.

"How did you get in here?"

"I never left."

"Doc," I says, despite the obvious. "You better just level with me."

"James. I can't. I mean I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm finally home after all this time." Impossibly, the old man's bones seem to sag even further. "Can I just rest for a second? Please?"

I'm worried. I've got a wife and kids now, and I don't know how I'm going to explain away this battered, ancient old fossil dying in my arms in the center of a high-security museum warehouse under my watch and care.

This man who has been missing for some fifteen years.

This man who was the chief rival of Dr. Rodriguez.

"Did you find your relic?" I ask finally.

The old man smiled widely, regarding me through his closed eyes. "You must tell me how you got the name 'The Cat Strangler'."

"How did you know about that nickname?" I says. "I ain't even thought of that in years."

The dry, bony doll wasn't breathing much anymore, and seemed to age rapidly before my eyes. "Tell me," he rasped.

"I got that name when I was 6 years old. My dad was a famous musician, and I played for him on his birthday. He said I played so bad, the name of my band should be 'The Cat Strangler'."

There was a weak tremor of laughter through the dying man. "And then he died."

"Yeah. That was his last words. His ankle got tangled in my guitar cord, and he busted open his head on the floor. I never played again."

Doctor Phillips faded away, chuckling softly. "God, that's the most fucked up story I've ever heard."