The Jehovah's Witness Protection Program

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Where ya goin?" asks the driver.

"Pianosa," I says.

Leaning over, he opens the passenger side door. "Hop in. I ain't goin that far, but I can get you partway."

Hesitating for a second, I size him up.

I figure he looks pretty harmless.

I pull the paperback out of my back pocket, swing into the seat, pull the heavy suitcase into my lap and close the door.

"Name's Paul," says the driver, offering his right hand.

"Fredrico," I says. "Fredrico Enchilada Del Morte El Monte Pinky Tuscadero Manora."

I'm not immediately certain why I'm lying ... but the suitcase must be protected at all costs: this is the suitcase filled with issues of The Watchtower I had meticulously doctored with pornography and profanity to ease Chris Wood's transition into Salvation.

"I see you've got a copy of Catcher in the Rye there."

"Yeah," I says listlessly. "Want it? I just finished."

We build speed, and safely leave the I-15 shoulder into sparse traffic.

"What did you think of it?" asks Paul.

200 lousy pages. No pictures, ninjas, car chases or robots. Just some weird punk who doesn't even kill anybody. "What a turd," I complain. "This book was crap."

"It's the devil's work," Paul agrees.

"Well I don't know. I wouldn't have thought the devil would be that boring."

"There's only one book worth reading Fredrico," Paul says confidently.

"Is it Antisocial Commentary?"

"No, Fredrico. It's The Bible."

Uh oh.

"Oh yeah," I agree thinking quickly. "That's my favorite too."

"Then why were you coming out of a strip bar?"

"I was, uh, tryin to Save all those lost souls." Looking out the window, I wince as I hear my own words fall out. "I'm a missionary."

"Really?'

"Yes," I groan painfully.

"Well that's fantastic. This whole world has just sunken into a briny cesspool of sin and debauchery. There'll be a lot of blood spilled when Jesus returns."

"That's not today, is it?"

"Could be," smiles Paul. "Say, that's a pretty heavy suitcase for a missionary. What's in it?"

"Oh you know. White collars. Bibles. Holy cinderblocks-"

"Which Bible?"

"The thick one."

"No, I mean is it the King James?"

"King Jesus," I correct.

"Halleluiah!" says James, still grinning. "I like you Fredrico."

"I'm glad," I says.

"Say," says Paul. "Can you hand me that black bag in the back seat?"

"Sure" I says, struggling to twist under my own luggage. "But I don't see it. Hey, why do you have so many chainsaws?"

"I'm a chainsaw salesman," he replies.

"No way."

"Yep. That's how I lost my hand."

Drawing his left hand into full view for the first time, I see it's been replaced by a large sharp metal hook.

"Wow!" I says. "That's totally cool!"

"That bag's back there somewhere," he assures.

Twisting back again, I repeat the search. "I don't see it."

"Maybe it's under all the pictures."

"You mean the ones with all the eyes cut out?"

"Yep. I was making tiny little masks."

"You're very precise." I says. "But no bag."

"How about under the machetes?"

Grunting, I clang them about a bit. "Nope. Oh. Wait. Is it the big black one?"

"Yeah," says Paul. "The one with the gun in it."

"What do you need a gun for?"

"I'm a very successful chainsaw salesman. You can't be too careful these days."

"That makes sense," I agree. "That explains the infrared scope. You could easily be jumped by like 700 well-organized deer if you demonstrated the foliage-cutting prowess of these beauties at night. You want me to load it for you?"

"It's already loaded," says Paul. "But I wouldn't worry. I doubt we'll be needing it where we're going."

"Were are we going?"

"Someplace untouched by the sin and perversion of humanity."

"But I kinda like Earth."

Holding the wheel with his hooked hand, he cocks the rifle with the other.

"We're goin to Utah!"

Wild, Wild West

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Just a short Wi-Fi note; the relentless old bat I mugged for this laptop is really upset and won't leave me alone.

But before you go on all 'judging' me, keep in mind this is LA; the law has long since abandoned any hope of reclaiming it.

I really should break down and buy my own laptop someday. These are nice!

... Besides, I don't seem to be able to run as fast as I used to.


More exploits about this trip can be read over at .45 Caliber Headspace.

Hollywood

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Cut, cut, cut!" I yell into the megaphone.

-LOBO: The Motion Picture has thus far been nothing but headache after headache.

"C'mon Jackie," I says, rubbing my temples. "The line is, 'You pullb my tond through my keythter!'"

"But why would I talk like that?" asks Jackie Chan.

I should've gone with Stallone.

Once again, I calmly explain. "You would have to talk like that if Lindsay Lohan pulled your tongue through your keyster!"

"Lindsay Lohan is in this movie?"

"Yes. Sort of. But due to various licensing liberties and an explicit lack of consent, we're to referring to her as 'Bindsay Bohan.'"

"Really," replies Jackie.

"Yeah. And she's being played by Chris Tucker."

"Well, what's my motivation?" smiles Jackie politely.

"Your 'motivation' is that Lind -I mean Bindsay- has sent her time traveling ninja bodyguards out to assassinate you, and you're disguised as a giant cicada. Jesus, do I have to explain everything? I mean you read the script presumably."

Frustrated, I walk back to my chair. Sitting heavily, I raise the megaphone to my lips.

This is what I get for flying out to Hollywood to make a documentary.

"Alright. Take two." I command. "Cue the robot dinosaur. Aaaaaaaand action!"

Jackie bounds up the six-story mechanical reptile, skewering stunt ninjas left and right. When he reaches the upper-left shoulder, he does a summersault flip and balances gracefully on the radiator of a car it was crushing in it's giant claws.

Howling in fury, the robot dinosaur unleashes it's full arsenal of laserbeams and missile batteries, and Jackie dances and twists impossibly to avoid them.

For a full thirty seconds, the sky is a thunderous inferno alive with fire, explosions and shrapnel. But soon the robot's howitzers cease their deadly hail of steel, and one by one the metallic clicketty clicketty clicketty of empty chambers replace the deafening storm.

-Jackie Chan had kicked all it's claws off.

The smoke slowly clears, revealing Jackie perched on the beast's nose.

It's eyes lock on him, and the pupils expand.

With a serene look, Jackie pounces into the air and severs the beast's head off with a single stroke of his lightsaber.

But even as the screaming monster's head slides off in a horrible shriek of grinding steel, Chris Tucker appears behind him on a hovercycle:

Bindsay Bohan: "You have fallen right into my trap LOBO!"

Jackie Chan: "Don't sing it Bohan. Bring it."

[blinding flash]

Jackie Chan: "You purred my tongs through my keystone!"

"Cut!" I scream, hurling my megaphone. "God dammit Jackie. If I was okay with plain English bein butchered, I woulda got Schwarzenegger!"

Wesley, Cripes!

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Once again, the United States Government has jealously dealt a sneaky beneath-the-belt blow to the mighty Predator Press Empire -this time having sentenced Wesley Snipes to 3 years in prison.

The premier of LOBO: The Motion Picture has been once again postponed indefinitely.

This is no small setback. It’s not as simple as just getting another actor; after seeing Blade, I was instantly convinced that only Wesley had the vast acting range, martial arts repertoire and rigorous superhuman physical endurance necessary to play yours truly.

So it’s back to the drawing board.

Despite the rejection letters in the mail, I would like the following gentlemen to return to the set for another screen test:



Thag has stolen my spellchecker, and gaven it to The Skwib

Pulp Non-Fiction

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"Tagging" me seems redundant; more than half of the material I've done in the past few weeks is pimp other sites.

So while flattered, I never know what to make of memes 'an stuff.

I'll do the first and most important part -the part about me- but as for spawning it on, you'll just have to trust that anything linked on my site is worth checking out.

1) I'm Anesthetically Inclined: In my brief career as a truck driver, I once covered 4,500 miles in 90 hours. That's the equivalent of New Jersey to Los Angeles, and halfway back.

Exhausted, I accidentally brushed my teeth with a handy tube of Neosporin. Despite the horrifying taste, I was so tired and in a hurry I said screw it. I mean, it's kind of a paste ... and it's also some kinda sterile germicide, right?

-I drooled and couldn't talk for about 300 miles.

2) I Stopped the "Music": While now merely a terrible writer, I was once a terrible musician too. After the 80s-ish Cheap Thrills and the 90s-ish Destructive Criticism, I started mixing equally terrible stuff on a label called The Spanish Fly Industrial Complex.

The proposed CD jacket -a giant chromed fly in a hangar bay- was the inspiration for the character 'Templeton' in my older stories.

I still own the rights to the label.

Want them?

3) I Unsuccessfully Tried Charity Work: I own the url "www.ilikevagina.com".

-The original idea was to sell "Yes! I like Vagina!" T-Shirts to fundraise for ovarian cancer prevention.

4) Lands End: There are nuggets of truth that inspired Walk This Plank, Talk This Plank; on the way to the vet, I wrecked a vehicle into a large body of water and had to rescue my cat from it.

5) Numb and Number: I am wholly and utterly unaffiliated uninspired and disloyal politically, and shamelessly so: all I want is an alternative energy source so we can starve other countries of the money they use to kill us with.

Otherwise, I couldn't give a crap.

-S.S.D.D.

6) The Speedo Torpedo: I can't remember which book, but Kurt Vonnegut once gave some measurements and wrote that "as far as he knew, his 'endowment' was a World Record".

-I considered writing a letter to correct him.

7) My Academic Accolades: In my first semester of college, my English teacher singled me out in front of the class. After reading one of my badly-butchered paragraphs aloud, she continued on to say how much she "resented having to deal with remedial students here at the college level".

One year later, I became the Editor-In-Chief of the school newspaper.

I posed nude in the first issue.

8) Rubbing Elbows the Wrong Way: As a teenager, I met Dave Mustaine at a Holiday Inn.

At the time, I had no idea who he was.

I didn't own the album he as touring on.

In fact, I didn't own any of them: I disliked Megadeth music in general.

He thought that was refreshing.

We had a great time.

9) *BONUS* Love Synchs, Yeah Yeah The character "LOBO" evolved out of an online dating profile I filled out as a gag. All the other profiles were blasé clones citing a love for 'long walks on the beach' and 'sunsets'.

You know. Horsecrap.

I wondered What would one of these things look like if you were too stupid to lie?"

The questionnaire, filled out honestly, was hilarious. There's a reasonable facsimile of the Q & A -republished in story form- here.

But this single vicious act of wanton and savage sarcasm gave me more than my nom de plume; it's also how I met my wife LadyTerri.

On top of dealing with my battle-scarred psyche and general goobery, Predator Press probably wouldn't be here without her; while I spend countless hours trying to pound out things that make people laugh, she spends all that same time keeping me "freed up".

Heart and soul I love her, and my whole world revolves around her.


Swift and lethal tagging/meme payback is owed to Dead Rooster

Buff

Predator Press

[LOBO]

During a recent meme, I was asked to list "8 truthful things about myself".

LadyTerri stopped me at "freakishly muscular".

"Muscular?" she asked. "Where?"

"You can't see them. They're like ant muscles. And ants can lift the equivalent of a bus."

"Uh huh."

"And I can lift like ten ant-sized busses."


I was disqualified after testing positive for neOnbubble.

And That's How I Rescued Diesel (Bring on the Ewoks!)

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I must admit, I expected the triumphant and long-awaited return of Predator Press to Humor-Blogs to look as pictured left.

Which may indeed occur -I'm mean it's entirely possible that Diesel has hidden the crowds and fireworks in his office.

But currently, it looks like this:

"Where's Diesel?" I demand firmly.

"Well, he ain't here," says Ed Harris, kicking me in the ribs even more firmly. "What do you want from him?"

[blonde on lobby television: "It's the monster!"]

"Well for starters," I wheeze, "I want you to stop kicking me."

"No dice," says Ed, pulling a note out of his pocket. Holding it in front of my swelling face, he reads it aloud:




[blonde on lobby television: "I had better put on my stiletto heels so I can escape it down the middle of the highway!"]

"But I'm trying to save Humor-Blogs!" I protest. "Hey, you work for Thomas Kinkade now, don't you?

"Mr. Kinkade has asked me not to respond to questions. Now would you roll over please? These ribs are all broken, and this side is too soft and spongy already."

[blonde on lobby television: click click click click POK "Dammit! I broke a heel! ...]

"Think about it Ed," I says, turning onto my stomach. "You don't want to work for -oof!- some artist that looks suspiciously like -ughn!- Eddie Izzard! This revolution could usher in a whole new era of comedy. Just look at this spiff new banner I made by ripping off Don Lewis!"





"Would you mind moving over by the couch?", says Ed. "My foot is getting tired."

[blonde on lobby television: ... click pok click pok POK "Dammit!"]

Next Episode:
D HUNDRED

Speedcat Hollydale is my bodyguard.