Predators on Patrol

Predator Press

[LOBO]





Okay. Most of this stuff is common sense and disclaimer blah blah -but since I put the relevant, juicy stuff like contact info (Section 7) waaaaay at the bottom, I get to incorrectly assume you bothered to read the whole damn thing.

But for those of you so bored you're not skipping down to Section 7, here are the rules ... all subject to change as I see fit:

1) I reserve the right to use or not use anything. And for no reason whatsoever. I will occasionally reject a post just because it feels itchy, or contains too many instances of the letter “T.”

2) Submissions must be uniquely written. If this thing sputters out due to lack of interest I may change my mind on this rule in the future, but as for now Predators on Patrol isn't a "Best Of" column ... it's a cross-promotional experiment to expose new readers and writers to new readers and writers. I'm sure those posts of yours are great, but if your fans have already read it, why would they come here to see it again?

Uh, submissions must also be in English. And not butcherin' our fine American language like the British do either.

-And oh holy crap don't submit somebody else's work and claim it's yours. Regarding submissions I will take you at your word, but subsequently busted plagiarists will be disqualified and then beaten to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

3) Content: I use curse words and skirt some taste boundaries upon occasion, but I'm also happily married and have teenage kids and family that read this blog. While Predator Press is certainly not 'PG' in any respect, please use some discretion; nudity, overtly pornographic, racially charged and offensive material will not be accepted. Outright product promotions and ads are not in the spirit of "Predators on Patrol" and will be rejected as well.

[-not that I wouldn't love a good sponsor: separate space for that can be negotiated at the same email address outlined in Section 7.]

4) Submission Mechanics: You can use pictures, but I will only open text files. I will not upload photos under any circumstances. If Section 5 [Format Tips Tricks and Recommendations] is too much, please include the linking address to your desired photos with your submission in an email body. I will take care of the rest (assuming the linking info is accurate), but note the Section 5 opening-paragraph "disclaimer" and try to be available via email in case I have questions or recommendations.

5) Format (Tips, Tricks and Recommendations): Whenever I've guest posted, I've developed the post on my own blog without publishing it to get a "feel" for what it will look like via previews. If you don't know diddly about HTML formatting, skip to Section 7 below with the understanding I may need to fiddle with how the stuff will look. While not entirely precluding layout alterations, the following steps are recommended to ensure they are kept to a minimum:

a) Save your completed post as a draft on your site (most if not all the HTML should still work for me if you follow these steps).

b) switch to "Edit HTML" (or equivalent)

c) Copy the HTML to your clipboard and then paste it into a word processor. If you're new to this, it'll look like it's half symbols, numbers, and other gibberish. That's okay ... I speak Geek.

d) Save the pasted code as a text [.txt] file.

e) Email that text file to me as an attachment per Section 7, and thank you in advance: this way I can simply cut and paste it with a minimal amount of "tweaking." This further preserves my upload space, keeps my page fast, and also protects me from virus threats, malicious codes and blah blah (this is not to imply anyone would do that on purpose, but a lot of bad codes are transmitted by people that don’t know they are doing it.)

6) Everybody who did not read everything up to this point probably has cooties.

7) Where and how to send your stuff. Put "Guest Post Submission" in the email header and send it to carpenoctum[at]hotmail.com. (Potential advertisers and/or sponsors should use this same email address but use "Predator Press Advertising" to initiate a dialog.)

Note: If you want me to notice an email containing your content or questions, do not, under any circumstances, use the words "Winner Notification" or "Enlarge Your Penis" 'cuz I'll never even see it: all that gets promptly escorted into electronic oblivion, your email address gets automatically banned, and God hates and punishes you for the rest of your pathetic, worthless, and revolting excuse of a disease-addled life. And beyond the grave. Probably.

-Follow up if you don't hear from me within a few days too as I might have missed it. (As you might've guessed, I get a lot of junk mail and ignore virtually everything I don't immediately recognize ... you might have accidentally been overlooked.)

8) Don't sweat it. Most of this overcomplicated-seeming blah blah is CMA [aka "Cover My Ass"]. Lock in a date and get your submissions in as early as possible, and we'll figure it all out from there. Have fun. I self and cross-promote wherever possible, so I hope this will be a mutually-beneficial project for everybody.

-And welcome to Predator Press!

Less LOBOs

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Before you start immolating yourselves or jumping off of buildings –or worse, immolating yourselves and then jumping off of buildings- please read this post in it’s entirety.

I didn’t consciously take a week off; I sorta got myself tripped up over a bit of a quandary.

See I’ve had a “Facebook” account for a few years and have neglected it. And as it is still unfamiliar, I was puzzled by the handful of people that had already found the undeveloped page and added me as friends. Heck, half of those resourceful few didn’t remember who I was when I returned the favor.

Despite the nagging guilt, this disregard may have gone on indefinitely. But I read recently that facebook and LinkedIn –used properly- can be assets when on a job search.

-Unfortunately, “used properly” means divulging a whole lot of personal info that I tend to avoid.

So now I need to decide how or if these tools are suitable for my purposes. But I like the relative anonymity, and truth be told there is little spectacular to reveal in regard to my personal and professional life anyway ... and doesn’t putting all that information out there pose a lot of risk of misuse too?

It seems like a lopsided equation in favor of leaving well enough alone.

The reason this is now pivotal is because of a good idea Terri had: taking on guest authors on a non-formal semi-regular basis. Specifically, featuring a unique article by a different blogger or writer maybe once a week or so, and switching up the page philosophy to be more of a magazine-format gallery.

That said, is there even interest in guest participation here? As a former newspaper editor, I would probably skim the grammar and ensure the formatting matches my site -but wouldn’t foresee a lot of micromanaging the guest post content … if it’s interesting, it’s fine. And to mitigate my own irregular posting patterns (I’m not quitting, I’m augmenting), I would make a banner in the #1 sidebar spot for that week’s Guest Poster for easy navigation, and ensure the post would be replete with links back to the respective author’s site.

So there it all is. If you’re interested in guest posting here, leave a comment. Or regarding facebook and LinkedIn users, how have these services impacted your lives? And were I to develop them, should they be extensions of Predator Press humor, or should they be serious and “real,” with author info and so forth?

And if you think about it, you’re doing us all a favor here.

-I could write epic volumes on cat farts.

The Crap I Don't Give Impacted

Predator Press

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It was only in that moment of ridiculous terror I realized it was, well, ridiculous.

-First of all, what the hell would I be doing in a cave? I am a lazy, lazy individual; caves require, you know, getting to them and stuff.

And this is all predicated by the unlikely idea you could convince me to go into a cave as well. Think about what you are up against here: if you uttered something that could be even vaguely paraphrased into "Let's work hard to get into a place we can easily get killed in!" aloud in my house, I would immediately call 911 and secretly hope the cops beat you into paste once removed from the premises.

Who is going to miss a spelunker anyway? Somebody would go, "Where is Bill? I haven't seen him in a few days," and somebody else would reply "He's a spelunker." Then the first guy would say "Oh."

-And that would be that. They wouldn't even look for you for weeks.

If at all.

Now that I think about it, I hate spelunkers -spelunkers, and guys named "Travis." And if you're a spelunker named Travis? Please save us all a lot of time and trouble and kill youself as soon as possible. It's for the greater good. Into the zinc smelter you go, and then foom -that zinc smelter is launched into the sun.

It's that simple.

Anyway if I'm not really in this cave because I'm dreaming, it stands to reason this cable-thick webbing that is keeping me from running isn't real either. This is a good thing, because the spider the size of a 7/11 that just caught me just laid about fifty teeny weenie hungy-looking babies, each only the size of a compact car.

-They too probably aren't real.

Jesus Christ I hope my sheets are dry when I wake up.

This first problem obviously is coming up with a new dream. I don't like horror and worrying if the washing machine and dryer are empty, so no more nightmare -I wanna do, ah, smarmy science fiction. Yeah. With a zesty hint of Western and maybe a pinch of James Bond too.

-I don't remember any transition at all. It was more kinda like forgetting the cave and the spiders.

Now I'm looking down upon a magnificent futuristic city: my cape blows back in the breeze revealing two big and dangerous looking holstered guns -guns I presume I use on people that make fun of my cape.

Man I look good in Spandex.

"That was brilliant sir!" say a voice from behind.

I whirl with the reflexes of a cat, eyebrow raised and gun drawn.

A grandfatherly-seeming man with a high-tech looking darkened spectacle approached, and I could see the flaming remains of my X Wi -I mean X-Thing fighter. (Does George Lucas still sue?) "Congratulations, my boy! You have saved the world again."

"Really?" I asked. "What exactly did I do?"

Suddenly, a thick throng of people close around me in a single wave, drowning the old man out completely.

"That was a fantastic display of heroism, physical prowess and utter genius!" says one.

"Yes it was," I agree. "What was it again?"

Then the cheerleaders start a rhythmic chant, "Horay for LOBO! You saved the world again!"

"Yes I did I suppose," I acquiesce. Well why should I be a party-pooper? Heck, this dream skips right to the victorious end, minus all that exhausting, dangerous 'adventure' crap and tedious detail.

Now that I think about it, this is the best dream I've ever had.

There's only one problem really. See in every 70's or 80's movie you'll ever see, the bad guy always demands a million dollars.

One.

-By today's standards, that's, well, laughable. You could probably get a million dollars for Corey Feldman.

So this is like the Twentieth Century or something. Couldn't I have saved more than one lousy world in my own dream? That's pretty lame if you ask me.

Bodysurfing over the still-growing crowds, I sigh disappointedly under the spectacular fireworks displays spelling "LOBO" is the sky.

Then I notice something unusual.

"Put me down," I tell the crowds.

Once my feet were on terra firma, the fan I happened to be facing smacked my shoulders proudly.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?" I replied, still watching the strange object in the sky.

It was a clearly approaching -a gigantic Independence Day-sized flying saucer.

Other people were now noticing it too.

The crowd scattered, and in moments I was in a huge clearing, directly under the central eye of the massive craft.

"LOBO" a mechanical voice boomed, shaking the ground. "We have come to destroy the universe."

"Like I care," I says. "It's a dump anyway. Just don't mess with any of my stuff."

"But," the voice continued. "We have changed our minds after witnessing your recent brilliant and heroic actions. Perhaps there is hope for your feebleminded race and ours to live in peace."

"And what did I do exactly?"

"You saved the universe."

The crowd cheers in the distance, and once again I am flooded by well-wishers.

But suddenly a stray LOBO firecracker bounced off of the goliath saucer's hull, and a million lasers unified on a single point -incinerating the unfortunate pyrotechnics engineer instantly.

And the guns began to take aim on possible threats in the sea of people.

"Oh my god," a woman screamed. "They killed Travis, the fireworks guy!"

As the smell of burnt hair wafted over the fearful spectators, a long uncomfortable silence ensued.

Finally seeming to notice, the saucer blurted "Long Live LOBO."

Whew, I thought.

-I'm pretty good at this 'hero' stuff actually.

Massachusetts Cops: A Lighter Shade of FAIL

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I used to think of Massachusetts as sophisticated and enlightened.

-But it appears if you part that lovely ivy just a smidge, gawsh-golly there’s a rootin’ tootin knee-slappin rebel flag-flyin hoedown just a-bellerin’ ta beat the band!

Betwixt whittlin, law enforcement, and just electrifiyin’ squaredance jug-blowin, Boston Po-lice Officer Justin Barrett done used this here lighty-box to tele-e-graph a mass email hollerin how Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. is a "banana-eating jungle monkey.”

Now before all you –uh- 'darkies' git ta yer angry break dancin an thowin’ yer fried chicken, y’all should know he has done assured America on CNN he is definitely not -by inny stretch of that thar imagination- a racist.

-In fact, some of his best friends knows people that are Negroes.

The Battlefield Known

Predator Press

[LOBO]

In the last post, an anonymous commenter asked if I had thought of writing a book and -ego stoked- I caught myself giving a big, longwinded answer as if I had any idea what I was talking about.

Now I don’t generally let my lack of knowledge about any particular subject get in my way, so that’s nothing special. But I did make myself laugh at my own apparent willingness to wax on and on over the topic of becoming a professional author; in truth I think if it were to be it would have happened already ... now a combination of age, lifestyle, and a total lack of connections and resources pretty much renders the whole thing moot. Worse of all, I lack the single quality most authors rely on to overcome these obstacles: talent.

-But then I started to think about that. Why should these “talented” people get all the breaks? Were the playing field leveled, who knows? I could be the next Hemmingway!

What would be required for my success would be sort of a “neutron bomb” for talent. Picture it: a blinding mushroom cloud, and a shock wave encircles the Earth; instantaneously “talented” authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Steven King and William Gibson –and all their works- are completely vaporized in a hellish, agonizing firestorm, and I am left to misuse semicolons and hyphens and otherwise butcher the English language with utter impunity.

(I said picture it, dammit!)

The Center Divide

Predator Press

[LOBO]

It was only vaguely sunny, but comfortable. The guy that works on his kit cars was working an Aston Martin, and, as per usual, the promising husk was blocking about a third of the two lane subdivision’s road.

I never really minded swinging by him. In fact to the contrary, I had a quiet admiration for his work. A few months ago -weather permitting- he was building a fucking hot Boss 429 Mustang. But having not come down this road for some time, I never really saw the project anywhere near completion.

Still, the Aston Martin looks pretty cool already.

The fact this obtrusive hobbyist was blind wasn’t much of a secret; it was obvious by his seemingly cavalier attitude toward roadside traffic. Even now, his legs, surrounded by tools, stuck out from the skeletal underside as autumn leaves swirled in skittish somersaults across the faded concrete -a scant five feet from the center divide.

If constructing cars wasn’t enough, it was rumored Hal worked for NASA. I swear to god. Not working on rockets and such, but something to do with the concession machines; he got in on some kind of handicap program. Single and without children, his income provided an enviable house, and an even more enviable hobby.

Little of this registers to me consciously as I swing by wide in the light traffic.

The security key would doubtlessly be changed by the second shift, and the locks would be reconfigured.

While not particularly rushed, it would be of no value in a matter of hours.

A serious thief would feel more pressed for time; I regard myself as more of a passing opportunist.

An explorer if you will.

Malls, most people don’t know, have separate entrances for their employees; concrete catacombs providing unrestricted access –I learned this from my first job, hawking smoothies at one. Sure they’re monitored by video cameras, but I look a lot like my brother, and I’m wearing his uniform. He’ll be mad if he finds out, but if he finds out I’m fucked anyway –I’m using his car.

And fuck his car, I’ve got his badge and his gun too.

But the plan is only to “explore.” A short pop in and out, copping my brother’s look if you’ll pardon the pun -acting like this unwieldy utility belt is second nature

Like I’m doing something boring yet somehow relevant.

Should a bicycle or a pair of sneakers appear in my car, well, what can I do? It’s not like I could return them. Those people would then prosecute, and the need to go through prosecuting people is a big pain in the ass.

Nobody wants that. I’ll just keep them.

My mildly amused grin goes away fast when I realize the key isn’t working. And even as my mind locks into the unexpected issue, I hear the interface pop.

“Stay there Mallory,” squawked the durable-looking gray cube. ”We’re coming out.”

Fuck, I thought.

I started sweating immediately –probably even before I began the brisk trot to the car. My hand seemed to instinctively hold the pistol grip despite the unfamiliarity as I ran, and from what seemed a million miles away I wondered optimistically if they would think my brother was suddenly dispatched on a call.

My mind raced as I started the roaring engine, while simultaneously slamming the door.

Should I have bluffed it out and stayed?

Thinking ahead, I had tactically parked for a fast exit: the tires screamed into the pavement hard, and I fishtailed slightly in the unexpected thrust.

When I saw the flashing lights in the rearview, and all hope of my brother not finding out melted. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked in Fuckville at fuck o’clock.

Still, maybe if I got the car back on our property they wouldn’t tow impound it.

Maybe if I tell him “I’m sorry,” my brother will forgive me sooner.

-And panic stricken, I forgot about poor ol Hal.

A Gift Certificate From 'Best Buy' Could Probably Fix This

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Dad,” whines Screechy. “They wont let me watch Dora!”

On the one hand, the teenagers are quietly watching television.

-But on the other, being unemployed and bored has made me an increasingly dark and deeply-conflicted individual: the five-year old and both teenagers are available for my potential amusement.

“What!?” I’ll say, feigning shock. “Well, you tell them I said ‘hoop-boobli-flip flang!’”

-And dutifully, Screechy runs down the stairs, back into the living room, and announces with distant-yet-undeniable authority, “Dad said … !”

I have to hide my laughter as the rapid footsteps return.

“They didn’t listen!” he complains. “They just, well, stared at me!”

I scowl menacingly. “Oh really? Well you tell them I said, “Quit spoinking and flizz-flazzle!” But just as he begins to run back, I grab his shoulder and look him in the eye real serious-like. “Don’t forget to tell them ‘pttttthbt’ first.” Holding my thumb to my nose, I wiggle my fingers and wince crossed eyes for effect. “Remember. Pttthbt! -or it won’t work!”

He practices the hand motion. "Spoinking the flizz-flazzle!"

“Perfect,” I smile parentally.

-This is followed by running footsteps down the stairs, muffled cursing teenagers (possibly throwing objects), and then running footsteps up the stairs.

"It's not working," he points out, breathing heavily. "You have to put on Dora."

"Did you remember the 'pttthbt' thing?"

"Yes."

"-And the fingers?"

He demonstrates. "Uh huh!"

"You did it wrong. You have to use your other hand ..."