"Loki" or "Voodoo?"

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Razed Right

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Currently embroiled in my third divorce, I now feel I feel I am qualified to lecture comprehensively on the subject.

-The first strangely invigorating, thoroughly rude sensation, is that initial shower blast.

Hanging from the showerhead, the 80’s songs you propped yourself up with last night thunder in your skull. You fumble for the hairy bar of soap as a weird mix of “Safari” perfume, WD-40, glitter, and some bent tricycle spokes cyclone helplessly down the drain.

Toweling off, you curse whoever made you this coffee. They fucked it up entirely- it’s either too strong or too weak.

In an impotent rage, you realize you made this coffee yourself.


It Gets Better.

Phil Runs Afoul

Predator Press

[LOBO]



A victim of a five year plan to kidnap him, I have lost my sidekick.

:(

Phillip K. Dickhead

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Picture a gigantic five-story hamster cage a quarter of a mile across, and each of the five floors separated by a maze of its own storage, industrial equipment, and systems of belts to bring freight in and out.

A demented child’s toy, blown up to the size of an amusement park.

-But I often forget its subtle and elegant genius; here at the precipice, the fifth floor, I can see down through all the cage floors, and clearly make out faces of my coworkers clocking in.

Coburn, my boss, is explaining something in excruciating detail. Probably the daily goals and hot issues, and I’m pretending to listen. But frankly the last thing I remember hearing him say was at the cafeteria pizza party two weeks ago, when he announced to some forty of us workers he “couldn’t eat with us because he is vegan.”

Well, I don’t want to work for a vegan –especially the world’s only fat vegan. At 5’2" and with a blunted-looking head, Coburn almost casts a perfectly cube shadow from any direction.

Coburn stops talking at the same moment I see Barbarossa, out of breath and sweating, clocking in on the ground floor.

Barbarossa is four minutes late.

“We will descend upon this like the angels of an angry God,” I growl.

Coburn, I’m surprised, is still here. In fact I’m reflexively engaged in his weirdly-hard, excruciating handshake.

“You’re a good man,” Coburn explains. “And the company has its eye on you.”

Don't Eat the Red Snow

Predator Press

[LOBO]

"You realize," says Max, arcing his lightsaber gracefully, making the 'hyms' and 'hums' with the blue beam, "George Lucas is going to sue the hell out of us."

"I wonder if they work though?" replies Brighta. With this, Brighta lashed his red beam into Max's. Then, spinning, he delivered a second.

Max, caught wholly off guard, watched in horror as his left hand fell to the ground.

Twitching.

"You dick!" Max screamed.

"Why didn't you block?" Brighta defended.

"No lightsabers!"

"Okay fine." Closing his eyes, Brighta made his third and final wish.

And where Max's amputated hand was once attached, a chrome, high-tech Gatling gun grew from his forearm.

Max goggles. "Cool!"

"Now let's do this thing," Brighta nods, coolly clipping his glowing lightcycle helmet on. "Before Vetter drinks all the booze."

Valkyrie Rose

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.”

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.