Predator Press
[LOBO]
Part II
”I find myself having to choose if I flee back to the surface, or stay in here and figure out what happened,” I says. "At this rate, the door will be closed completely in a day or so.”
I pan the camera to the cave enormous and slowly descending steel door.
A shock of static.
”I’m staying,” I commit to the black and glossy disinterested dead lens, shivering, breath visible in the chill. ”There’s nothing up there anymore anyway.”
Saturday
Apocalypse NOW!
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The first problem with the Swine Flu is the name itself. Blech! Who names these things anyway? Would it have been so bad to name it something more palatable like the "Fuzzy-Bunny" flu?
To test this theory, I called my mom and told her I had a bad case of Fuzzy Bunnies. She thought it was wonderful, and requested I save her one.
But because this disease can kill you, the cutesy name theorem is imperfect: "Fuzzy Bunny" entered on your Death Certificate as 'Cause of Death' can have an extremely negative effect on your street cred; once the illness turns lethal, we're going to want to call it something more dangerous sounding.
Currently I’m leaning toward "Thor’s Bitchslap."
-Now that sounds like a pretty cool way to die.
That being said, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is according to numerous highly-scientific simulations I’ve conducted on the Flash game Pandemic II, I figure you all have maybe eight days left before the virulent "wonderful" outbreak of Fuzzy-Bunny devolves fully into the subsequent -and inevitably fatal- onset of Thor’s Bitchslap.
But the good news is with proper precautions there’s still hope for all of you not transmitting this disease to me. The Predator Press Center For Disease Control has issued the following recommendations:
1) Boil yourself at a minimum temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit prior to contact in a one half bleach, one half Lysol and one half holy water solution.
2) Burn all your germ infested property (unless you think I might want it). Use careful discretion here ... I don’t want pictures of your kids and whatever. Please limit this salvage to luxury cars, high-end electronics and precious metals.3) Be tidy. Without remaining hosts to be transmitted to, most pandemics will burn themselves out in a few months: the only thing worse than me wandering around mid-July roasting in a hazmat suit would be doing so knee-deep in a bunch of stinky skeletons. Please have some consideration. Cremation also 100% eliminates the possibility of you returning as zombies.
In conclusion, you all being dead will be a terrible thing for me to endure: I thank you in advance for easing my painful experience through your efforts.
Monday
Academix
[LOBO]
It occurs to me how hard I worked to pass my college biology classes, and how promptly I forgot all that largely useless data.
Chicago has a pretty limited ecology. Unless you want to be a doctor or a vet, Chicago biology classes should consist of dogs, cats, and rats. Some bugs. And maybe extra credit for fish.
The same goes for algebra. I ultimately would grow to like algebra, and was pretty good at it. But far as a practical? Again, not a single post-college application to date.
Zero.
Why don't colleges offer classes on fishing and hunting? That seems infinitely more important than solving for "x."
Sunday
The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs
-as retold by Predator Press
[LOBO]
Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.
“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”
“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”
“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.
[LOBO]
Once upon a time, a man and his wife got a fantastical golden goose, and it laid a golden egg every day.
“This is terrible,” said the man. “We can’t eat gold!”
“Kill it,” said the woman. “It might breed with the other animals. The entire village could starve to death!”
“We will be remembered forever as heroes!” cried the man.
Valkyrie Rose
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Part I
s per design specs, the Mag Lev Network efficiently delivered Beverly to Winston’s apartment -200 miles away- within 20 minutes. Still, despite her rush, she found herself pausing at the door. What she is proposing is both crazy and frightening, and she steadied herself as a shiver ran through her like an electric current.
In this moment of forced and focused suppression of fear, she realizes her head is aching too. Suspecting her hastily-applied ponytail, she pulls the elastic ring out as she finally knocks. This unintentionally delights Winston who, already attracted to the good Doctor, has never seen her somewhat bookish and professional demeanor.
“Beverly,” Winston smiles blearily, still adjusting his robe.
“I’m sorry Winston,” Beverly smiles somberly. “I should have called first. But I spent the ride here convincing Rick to come.”
“Here? Now?” Winston winces at his own incredulousness.
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“By all means,” he steps aside invitingly and closes the door behind her.
If Beverly is impressed by Winston’s rather posh apartment, she doesn’t let on as she strides to his kitchen. “Do you have coffee?”
Still at the door, Winston scratches though his sleep-addled hair . “Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Did you watch the translated vid?”
“Some of it,” Winston shrugs, following her. “It’s a hoax,” he adds conclusively as he procures coffee grounds from a cabinet.
“It’s too elaborate to be a hoax. Nothing on this scale could be created in secret. Even the language is some long-dead derivative of Latin. Are you hungry? I want to order food.”
“It’s 11pm,” Winston protested mildly, filling the coffee maker with water. “And we have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“To report our findings,” Beverly agrees. “We are having a meeting before that one. These findings are,” she chooses her words carefully. Only now does it occur to her that Winston’s apartment may have surreptitiously. But for that matter, her apartment could be too. “Significant,” she proceeds dubiously. “Particularly given who we are reporting them to. Mag Lev will want to drill regardless of our opinions, and with billions of dollars at stake it would surprise me for this to just disappear. We need to discuss our findings first. And what to tell them, if anything at all. Rick is already on his way.”
“So you watched the whole thing?”
“Numerous times. And read and re-read the transcripts and all the analysis I could.”
Winston chuckles. “And you thing is some kind of distress call from some ancient civilization.”
“No,” replies Beverly. “I think it’s a warning.”
***
“How are we doing?”
“Well, it ain’t good,” I says, peeling back my mask. “I’m a hundred miles behind. I went down as far as I could -maybe a mile. But visibility is pretty bad.” Tucking my head into my lapel, I finger sand from the filter. “I got a goddamn flat tire too.”
There’s a pause, and empty static crackled loudly.
“Can you get back on track?”
“I don’t think so,” I says, staring out unseeing over the clouded chasm. “Negative. I’m sure I can get the bike fixed; my grandpa had a farm out here a few miles back. But I can’t see a damn thing unless this storm clears up. It looks like the end of the Earth.”
Would grandfather’s farm even still be there? I thought. This was nothing but boring farm flatland ten years ago.
“I’m going to have to check in with you guys in the morning,” I says. “I have no idea what has happened here. The landscape seems totally different.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Unfortunately, I can guarantee we won’t be finding any food here.” Hesitant and frank, I commit, “I would guess this is the end of the road really.”
“Round trip?”
“It’s your call. I’m familiar with this area, so maybe I can dig something up. And if the storm clears, there might even be a way to continue on.” I look back over my shoulder to see the gulch beyond the edge of the highway, but only see the whipping grey of sand and ash. “I don’t know how optimistic to be about the highway, but as far as being broken down, I couldn’t have picked a better spot. I grew up here. Blinding storm or not, I know the area.”
“I think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest.”
I laughed, “Funny. I was thinking food. I’ll bet a million bucks I’ll find a few cans of chili or something.”
“Let’s say you check in daily.”
“Grid permitting.”
“Of course.”
“We need to make this conversation short then, for my battery. I’ll bring back all the fuel I can carry too.”
“Refined?”
“Let’s not get picky yet. Lemme see what happens.” There's a thick, dried brush under the sand, and sometimes it cracks under my steps causing me to sink several inches. "This was a farming community. Unless is was looted thoroughly, I should find a trove of useful stuff. Frankly I don't know how you could have looted this place of everything considering how hostile it seems."
“I’m officially listing you as ‘Grounded by Severe Storm” until further notice.” A brief pause. “How long until we have you back on duty?”
“What makes you think I’m coming off duty?” I says. Re-applying the filtered mask, I switch off the doubtlessly-recorded conversation. The approval I wanted was, well, all I wanted. They won't be hearing me for a while. Did we do this? I don't know. Do I care?
Jesus fucking Christ. This place is a hellhole now.
I remember the Shell station sign, and that used to be at the highway exit.
No I don't really care.
-So that means that before the huge crack in the earth runs roughly perpendicular. I close my eyes for a moment to try and remember the place with roads. Eyes open, it occurs to me that I’m not on any of the ‘roads’ at all … I’m in a water retention pond, now full of sand.. Strangely fortunate, this leads me directly into the edge of the city.
I decide to prop up the bike and leave it. With visibility as it is, I'm as likely to hit an abandoned car or a concrete pole or something. Further complicating things is that my area knowledge is very old: you would be surprised how many new buildings and apartment complexes and roads creep in over the years.
Plus, my father's farm was well outside the city -maybe eighteen miles southwest of the -the "Rift"- as the crow flies. Farm land, surrounded by wire fencing to mark borders and keep large animals in. In short, biking any further off the highway would be a good way to get decapitated.
Still, I would live to regret my cavalier attitude.
This storm, to my knowledge, would never end.
And I would never hear another living human voice again.
[LOBO]
Part I
In this moment of forced and focused suppression of fear, she realizes her head is aching too. Suspecting her hastily-applied ponytail, she pulls the elastic ring out as she finally knocks. This unintentionally delights Winston who, already attracted to the good Doctor, has never seen her somewhat bookish and professional demeanor.
“Beverly,” Winston smiles blearily, still adjusting his robe.
“I’m sorry Winston,” Beverly smiles somberly. “I should have called first. But I spent the ride here convincing Rick to come.”
“Here? Now?” Winston winces at his own incredulousness.
“Yes. Can I come in?”
“By all means,” he steps aside invitingly and closes the door behind her.
If Beverly is impressed by Winston’s rather posh apartment, she doesn’t let on as she strides to his kitchen. “Do you have coffee?”
Still at the door, Winston scratches though his sleep-addled hair . “Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Did you watch the translated vid?”
“Some of it,” Winston shrugs, following her. “It’s a hoax,” he adds conclusively as he procures coffee grounds from a cabinet.
“It’s too elaborate to be a hoax. Nothing on this scale could be created in secret. Even the language is some long-dead derivative of Latin. Are you hungry? I want to order food.”
“It’s 11pm,” Winston protested mildly, filling the coffee maker with water. “And we have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“To report our findings,” Beverly agrees. “We are having a meeting before that one. These findings are,” she chooses her words carefully. Only now does it occur to her that Winston’s apartment may have surreptitiously. But for that matter, her apartment could be too. “Significant,” she proceeds dubiously. “Particularly given who we are reporting them to. Mag Lev will want to drill regardless of our opinions, and with billions of dollars at stake it would surprise me for this to just disappear. We need to discuss our findings first. And what to tell them, if anything at all. Rick is already on his way.”
“So you watched the whole thing?”
“Numerous times. And read and re-read the transcripts and all the analysis I could.”
Winston chuckles. “And you thing is some kind of distress call from some ancient civilization.”
“No,” replies Beverly. “I think it’s a warning.”
“How are we doing?”
“Well, it ain’t good,” I says, peeling back my mask. “I’m a hundred miles behind. I went down as far as I could -maybe a mile. But visibility is pretty bad.” Tucking my head into my lapel, I finger sand from the filter. “I got a goddamn flat tire too.”
There’s a pause, and empty static crackled loudly.
“Can you get back on track?”
“I don’t think so,” I says, staring out unseeing over the clouded chasm. “Negative. I’m sure I can get the bike fixed; my grandpa had a farm out here a few miles back. But I can’t see a damn thing unless this storm clears up. It looks like the end of the Earth.”
Would grandfather’s farm even still be there? I thought. This was nothing but boring farm flatland ten years ago.
“I’m going to have to check in with you guys in the morning,” I says. “I have no idea what has happened here. The landscape seems totally different.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Unfortunately, I can guarantee we won’t be finding any food here.” Hesitant and frank, I commit, “I would guess this is the end of the road really.”
“Round trip?”
“It’s your call. I’m familiar with this area, so maybe I can dig something up. And if the storm clears, there might even be a way to continue on.” I look back over my shoulder to see the gulch beyond the edge of the highway, but only see the whipping grey of sand and ash. “I don’t know how optimistic to be about the highway, but as far as being broken down, I couldn’t have picked a better spot. I grew up here. Blinding storm or not, I know the area.”
“I think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest.”
I laughed, “Funny. I was thinking food. I’ll bet a million bucks I’ll find a few cans of chili or something.”
“Let’s say you check in daily.”
“Grid permitting.”
“Of course.”
“We need to make this conversation short then, for my battery. I’ll bring back all the fuel I can carry too.”
“Refined?”
“Let’s not get picky yet. Lemme see what happens.” There's a thick, dried brush under the sand, and sometimes it cracks under my steps causing me to sink several inches. "This was a farming community. Unless is was looted thoroughly, I should find a trove of useful stuff. Frankly I don't know how you could have looted this place of everything considering how hostile it seems."
“I’m officially listing you as ‘Grounded by Severe Storm” until further notice.” A brief pause. “How long until we have you back on duty?”
“What makes you think I’m coming off duty?” I says. Re-applying the filtered mask, I switch off the doubtlessly-recorded conversation. The approval I wanted was, well, all I wanted. They won't be hearing me for a while. Did we do this? I don't know. Do I care?
Jesus fucking Christ. This place is a hellhole now.
I remember the Shell station sign, and that used to be at the highway exit.
No I don't really care.
-So that means that before the huge crack in the earth runs roughly perpendicular. I close my eyes for a moment to try and remember the place with roads. Eyes open, it occurs to me that I’m not on any of the ‘roads’ at all … I’m in a water retention pond, now full of sand.. Strangely fortunate, this leads me directly into the edge of the city.
I decide to prop up the bike and leave it. With visibility as it is, I'm as likely to hit an abandoned car or a concrete pole or something. Further complicating things is that my area knowledge is very old: you would be surprised how many new buildings and apartment complexes and roads creep in over the years.
Plus, my father's farm was well outside the city -maybe eighteen miles southwest of the -the "Rift"- as the crow flies. Farm land, surrounded by wire fencing to mark borders and keep large animals in. In short, biking any further off the highway would be a good way to get decapitated.
Still, I would live to regret my cavalier attitude.
This storm, to my knowledge, would never end.
And I would never hear another living human voice again.
Thursday
Prey-dar
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"I'm not going to be able to make it in today," wheezes Barbarossa over the radio. "I'm actually in the hospital."
Knowing Barbarossa's susceptibility to allergies, his first sick day doesn't really come as a surprise ... particularly in the pollen surfeit of this early Illinois Spring. But I have a corporate meeting scheduled this morning where toothy, well-dressed execs will want to decide what he should be fired for; Barbarossa's absence today would be professional suicide.
"Dude," he rasps over the phone cradled in my palm. "I think I just saw a the nurse fart!"
Switching the labels on his nasal decongestant spray and eye drops was merely hastening the inevitable.
-And inspired.
[LOBO]
"I'm not going to be able to make it in today," wheezes Barbarossa over the radio. "I'm actually in the hospital."
Knowing Barbarossa's susceptibility to allergies, his first sick day doesn't really come as a surprise ... particularly in the pollen surfeit of this early Illinois Spring. But I have a corporate meeting scheduled this morning where toothy, well-dressed execs will want to decide what he should be fired for; Barbarossa's absence today would be professional suicide.
"Dude," he rasps over the phone cradled in my palm. "I think I just saw a the nurse fart!"
Switching the labels on his nasal decongestant spray and eye drops was merely hastening the inevitable.
-And inspired.
Sunday
Reversing the Mayan Prophecy One Day at a Time
 |
| This is me in the picture. Probably. |
[LOBO]
For an additional $6.85 a week (after taxes), I am now officially in charge of Barbarossa -the closest approximation to a friend I have- and his girlfriend Agatha, who I strongly suspect is a transsexual.
The toothy boss-guy gripping my paw painfully gushes, "I think we've overlooked your rare qualifications long enough."
"I agree whoreheartedly" I reply, shaking back in a sincere and enthusiastic manner. "How soon can I fire people?"
 |
| Pthbbbt ... Stupid Mayans. |
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