Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’ve spent the last two weeks mulling over retiring Predator Press, and finally figured I’m not going to do so –well, not in any formal sense anyway.
Instead, I think I’m going to return it to how it was a few years ago: experimental writing that is not necessarily humorous.
The drawback of a “humor” blog is that it should be funny, and in my archives I’ve found over a hundred posts –short stories and opinion pieces- that didn’t qualify as such. Beyond that there have been dozens and dozens of posts deleted as too serious, vitriolic or adult for broad appeal. Beyond that are the countless stories I’ve back-burnered for the lack of humor, and this is the biggest travesty of all: I’ve caught myself lately concluding some projects are “not funny enough to pursue” and abandoned them at inception.
Far too notoriously lazy to start a second blog showcasing “serious” writing efforts, the all-too-frequently recurring feeling that I’m stuck in a slapstick mode is becoming extremely pervasive. I suppose in this manner I’ve been letting this insidious little blog increasingly dictate how I write and what I write about, and from a creative standpoint I need that to change.
This isn’t to say Predator Press won’t still be funny upon occasion. Quite the contrary, humor writing and dark satire are in no danger of being unseated as my favorite mediums. But I think “mixing it up” a bit can do little but help improve my storytelling, and thusly enrich the experience overall.
What it does mean, however, is that I don’t know what I’ll be writing about anymore.
And for the first time in months, I’m excited at the prospect.
Friday
The Last Command
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
***
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
***
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits, The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
Monday
Chi
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.
-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?
This is why I will never become a Sensei.
[LOBO]
Having not been in a Dojo since Grand Master Futon awarded me my honorary white belt, little Screechy’s first karate class left me pondering my own illustrious martial arts career. That is where I developed the strict discipline and physical fitness I continue to emulate even today, and I consider it one of the most demanding -yet rewarding- weeks of my entire life.-And Screechy is lucky to be following in my footsteps: a “legacy,” he too was bestowed with the rank of whitebelt on his very first day.
But the congratulatory ceremonies were cut short: just we were about to break out the traditional karate booze and piñatas shaped like ninjas, a bunch of kids wanting to play basketball started to harass some of the students.
Expecting a spectacular display of compound fractures and bloodletting, I was really disappointed when a small group of lowly blackbelts circumvented the incident entirely and without any violence whatsoever.
Why, when there must have been sixty or seventy of us deadly whitebelts in the auditorium, would three or four amateur blackbelts allow our sacred Dojo be besmirched thusly so? After doubtlessly devoting several hours studying the great Wisdom of the Orient, have these people learned nothing about when someone needs their ass kicked good an proper? Has all that effort and time learning to rip someone’s arm off and beat them to death with all gone to waste entirely?This is why I will never become a Sensei.
Thursday
California
Predator Press
.jpg)
[LOBO]
As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
.jpg)
[LOBO]As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.
I dunno.
-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.
Wednesday
DePeste Mode
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Today is the big day.
May 6, 2009 will mark the precise point when Predator Press finally offended every last human on Earth.
This momentous feat would have been accomplished sooner, but 22 year old Ranma Chu [pictured left] turned out to be very tricky to track down; customs officials took issue with “Dental Floss Jokes” as my Reason for Visiting the Country, and the Singaporean authorities became completely intransigent.
-Lousy Communists.
Tuesday
Sailing the Estrogen Seas
Predator Press
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
[LOBO]
There’s a time in every decent father’s life when he realizes his 16 year old daughter has been possessed by The Devil and needs to be tried as a witch, exorcised, and then burned at the stake anyways (just in case).
-The main difference between me ‘an those pansies is they are too chicken to follow through.
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