Predator Press
[LOBO]
Steve moored his boat carefully, and crossed the creaking docks to the shore.
“Greetings from the Mayan Empire,” grinned Steve amiably.
“Welcome to Easter Island,” droned an uninspired official with a clipboard. Stepping gingerly over a sleeping man, he approached. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Business,” replies Steve.
“And the nature of the business?”
“I’m here on behalf of the Mayan Empire, in search of legendary sculpture -sculpture for which your people are renown the world over.”
“Huh” says the man, presumably the Port Authority. “Then you’ll want to speak to my brother. He does all the major sculpturing around here.”
“Very well then,” says Steve.
“Would you like to settle your docking fee now?”
“Docking fee?”
“Yes. There is a non-refundable $20 docking fee.”
“I can’t get a discount based on our mutual commercial interests?”
“I’m sorry. No exceptions.”
“Fine. Here you go.”
“And then there will be the fees associated with tying up our Master Sculptor. Meeting with him will be an additional non-refundable $50 an hour.”
“What?”
“Look buddy. Don’t be difficult. I don’t make the rules.”
“Okay fine. Here.”
“And there’s a $15 fee for locating our Master Sculptor. This fee is also non-refundable.”
“I thought you said he was your brother,” replies Steve.
“Oh yeah. Sorry. That fee is a non-refundable $25. I
hate that prick.”
“This is outrageous. I’m being fleeced and I haven’t even left the dock yet!”
“Please feel free to file any complaints with the Port Authority.”
“That’s
you.”
“Yeah. Formal complaints filed with the Port Authority are a non-refundable $10 apiece. But I recommend you file them
after your meeting with the Master Sculptor. You’re already down to 55 minutes.”
“Fine. Please fetch me this artisan immediately, before you shake me upside down for change!”
The Port Authority, while simultaneously counting his cash, turned and kicked the man sleeping by his foot.
“Frank,” he says to the prone man. “You have a customer. He wants to buy your sculptures.”
“Now?” the man groans. “I am busy. Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
The Port Authority returns his attention to Steve. “Frank says he is busy. Please come back tomorrow.”
“He is sleeping!”
“Well artists -particularly gifted ones such as my brother Frank- tend to be eccentric and fickle. I’m sure you understand. I'll tell you what. Come back tomorrow, and I'll give you a discount on your docking fee.”
“The only thing I understand is that I rowed 2000 miles to get here. Tell him to get up.”
“I’m up,” scowls Frank irritably. “I don’t know how anyone could sleep around here with all this racket anyway.”
“Hello Frank,” said Steve. “It is truly an honor to meet you. I am a huge fan of your work.”
Frank stretches. “Really?” he half-yawns.
“Yes. It is highly regarded by my people. I personally own several pieces.”
“Bah!” Frank guffaws. “Tell that to those prudes at the Louvre.
‘No Frank, we can’t put pornographic macaroni art in our displays.’ What a bunch of stodgy, pompous asses. How
dare they call my work 'pedantic adolescent swill'?" Frank spits. "
Swill? Really? Matisse draws some crap in Crayolas and fingerpaints -oh, that's
art. But my stuff is
swill?”
“I didn't mean to upset you,” says Steve. “As I said, we are very fond of it actually.”
“Nah. I'm sorry. I forget my manners sometimes. Me 'an my brother are the last two left, and we don't get a lot of visitors."
"You're the only two left?" asked Steve, puzzled. "What happened?"
"Um," says Steve. "A tidal wave. Yeah. A big tidal wave. Swept away all the skeletons and evidence. You didn't come through that huge storm on your way here? Oh man you dodged a bullet."
"Wait. The tidal wave swept away
skeletons?"
"Figure of speech. I mean skeletons, skin, organs ...
everything of course. Everyone else on Easter Island was washed away -wholly intact and untenderized- to a watery grave. Their screams
'please save me from this tidal wave' will haunt my dreams forever. I tried to save those poor bastards too. But I ... uh ...
couldn't. It was horrible."
"Yet all your buildings and structures remain intact," observes Steve.
"That's good old Easter Island
craftsmanship," Frank brags smoothly. "So what do you want exactly?”
"What religion are you Frank?"
"Well I was Christian, but I converted to Islam. Now I skip Muslim mass instead."
“Are you aware that my people are working on our 2012 calendar?”
“2012?” notes Frank skeptically. “What year is this ... 6? 7? And you’re working on
2012?" Frank whistles. "Are you people that
bored?"
“2012 is
special,” explains Steve. “In 2012 all world problems are solved, and humanity will live evermore in an enlightened utopia.”
“Huh,” says Frank. “So where do I come in?”
“We want some statues to commemorate the grand occasion. You know. Something big. Something
festive.”
“Then I’ve got just the thing,” replies Frank. “Please step this way.”
After a short walk, they went inside a warehouse Steve surmised Frank was using as a workshop.
“You’re gonna love this” says Frank confidently, approaching a tall edifice covered by a sheet. Grabbing a corner, he pulls the sheet away with a smooth and well-practiced flourish.
”Behold!”
Steve stares.
“Awesome, isn’t it?” continues Frank. “It just kind of, you know,
pops.”
“Hmmmm,” says Steve. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really seem to capture the spirit of what we were going for.”
“Really?’ says Frank, wounded.
“Yes,” says Steve with finality. “This doesn’t say
'All the world’s famine, disease and poverty are gone forever' to me. This says something more like
'If I had arms, I would trim my eyebrows.'”
“Huh,” says Frank. “I guess I see what you’re saying. Luckily I have more.” Frank moves to the next sheet. “This one is more in line with your expectations I’m sure. I call it
Festive Revelry.”
The sheet falls away, revealing another massive sculpture.
"Eh?
Eh?" says Frank proudly. "I don't usually do celebrities, but I was really pleased with how this one came out just the same."
"The resemblance is uncanny," Steve acknowledges.
"She's suing me."
“Indeed this one is
slightly better” Steve nods, circling Frank’s alternative creation. Hands on hips, he stops in front of Frank. Eyes still on the statue, he shakes his head to the negative. “But I don’t know.”
“Oh come on,” says Frank. “This one
screams festivity. Even mom said so, right before she died in the fire pit slathered in barbecue sauce.”
"I thought you said everyone died in a tidal wave."
"Mother could be very stubborn."
“Let me see another one.”
“How about this one?”
“Well, this one looks just like the first one, doesn’t it?” And it has a crack in the nose!”
“Those ‘cracks,’ as you call them, are purposefully added to give the statue a distressed look,” explains Frank. “It’s very trendy. And they buff right out with a little Bondo. When it dries, you just sand it down and paint-“
“Do you have anything different?”
Frank sighs. “Not really.”
There’s a loud knock at the door.
“How many of these heads do you have?” asks Steve.
“887 or so. It’s a very popular model -this year's best seller in fact. And we deliver anywhere on Easter Island for free with cash purchase.”
Another knock. Louder. Frank, irritated, goes to answer it.
“But I don’t live on Easter Island,” calls Steve after him.
“A shame,” replies Frank. “But you wouldn’t fit in here without one anyway. These statues are considered very sheik -a symbol of status.”
Frank opens his rickety door to find his brother glaring.
“Frank," he growled. "When are you going to remove that ugly piece of shit head off of my lawn?”
“Next week,” whispers Frank. “I promise. Now if you will excuse me, I am talking to the contractor even as we speak.”
"Bullshit. There's no one else on this island except that Mayan guy you want to unload your crap on. I'm not Port Authority for
nothing, asshole."
“One of these would never fit on my boat,” Steve points out loudly from the distant display.
“That’s not a problem,” calls Frank, slamming the door. “We have a full assortment of miniature souvenirs. Toys, pencil erasers, USB drives, mouse pads ... you name it.”
“I have a court order!” Frank's brother yells audibly from outside.
Frank rolls his eyes. “Steve -May I call you Steve? Please ignore my brother. Our statues are backlogged deeply, and he can’t wait to receive his. And he already has one! He is just crazy about them.”
“So all you have are heads, huh?" Steve hesitates. "I don’t know if I can make a big giant head work honestly. Even the
colors are all wrong. We're thinking a teel and hot pink theme.”
“Well I would hate to see you come all this way and leave empty handed,” offers Frank. “Tell me more about this ‘2012’ thing. You say mankind will eliminate poverty, war, hunger, and crime -and thus live happily ever after?”
“Yes.”
“Will we be able to drink beer from women’s boobs?”
“I, uh, doubt it.”
Frank shrugs. “Well if you ask me, it doesn’t sound like much of a utopia then. In fact, that's the lousiest 'happily ever after' I've ever heard.”
“I’m not following you.”
“With a little tweak to your idea, these statues are perfect,” says Frank. “Just look at the expression on this one. It says
'Gee. All world problems are solved, and humanity will live evermore in an enlightened utopia … but we still haven’t figured out how to drink beer from women’s boobs. Even at its intellectual and spiritual apex, Humanity is an utter failure -a futile, failed gesture by god and/or the gods. And that warrants wholesale and horrific fiery extermination from any vengeful deity you might be worshiping, not worshiping, or otherwise enraging! The seas will run red with your blood in the slaughter of unholy wrath ... '" Frank pauses and looks up, admiring his own work. "Cripes, man. Are
all you Mayans this unimaginative? The possibilities are endless!"
“No we're not 'unimaginative' thank you. I'm wearing a purple feather
headdress for goodness sake."
"I know! And it's ornate, meticulous, full of subtle complexity ... your Empire must be
excruciatingly boring to have that kind of time."
"The Mayan Empire is the furthest thing from boring."
"Well you don't have to tell
me, brother. When it comes to those calendars, you're totally fearsome. Now let's get back to you insulting my art."
"I didn't insult your art," counters Steve, looking upon the big giant head statue with fresh, new possibility. Involuntarily chewing his lip in deep thought and nervous anxiety, his teeth seemed to glow purple.
"Remember I only have 887 of them left," Frank points out. "That's it, too ... I'm not making any more. It's an automatic
collector's item now. Would you like yours numbered? I can number them." Sensing Steve is teetering on the sale, Frank leans in and whispers. "I'll number them all '1' if you want. The resale value will be
incredible."
“But wouldn’t predicting the end of the Earth be kind of, you know, a
downer?" says Steve. "My people are back home expecting something a little more uplifting. Less ominous -you know, something thought-provoking but not scary. We already got balloons and cake and stuff.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Frank clarifies. “If everyone believes the world will be a utopia in 2012, everyone will slack off waiting for it to happen. But conversely, if they think it will
end in 2012, they will go about their lives in a full-on ardent appreciation of the present instead.” Frank punches Steve's shoulder. "Imagine the party you'll have
then."
“I like it,” concludes Steve. “Dreading oblivion, humanity will doubtlessly make the best of the years
up to 2012.”
“Yep," Frank replied, not missing a beat. "No wars, famine, poverty ... faced with a
bigger problem, the world will doubtlessly unite and make the best of the years that remain.”
“But what happens when the world doesn’t end in 2012?”
“Hello? Enlightened utopia instead of galactic obliteration? Who is going to complain? They will
thank you. Besides, we’ll all be dead by then.”
“And revered throughout history as the wise, forward-thinking heroes of our age,” Steve nods excitedly. “I’ll take 10,000 statues!”
“Good,” says Frank. “Just sign this invoice, and I’ll get started on them right after lunch." Frank pauses. "Say, how much do you weigh? 180 or so?"
"Yes. Why?"
Frank preheated his pottery oven to 350° and smiled strangely.
"Just curious."
