Chicago “Occupied” as Octomom to be “Preoccupied”

Predator Press

[LOBO]

See technically, I know Everything.

-But that means I know things that aren't necessarily true.

I am as hard-wired to news as one can be I think. And every brief debacle of my slothful and indolent consciousness on Earth is soaking up salacious gossip from any “information” source at my immediate disposal. Even at work, in the dizzying depths of my hoary hamster cage, AM radio (Right-Wing punditry disguised as news) has some frail signal.

So I knew that Nadya “Octomom” Suleman would ultimately collapse under the weight of a debased, schadenfreude-wrapt nation before you did. Honestly I knew this would happen years ago: inevitably she would have no choice. But she is paying for her desire for fame, no?

More importantly, I know that every Anarchist’s anathema, other Anarchists, are making Anarchists in general look like total assholes.

Random acts of violence and chaos are just plain evil.

These pipsqueaks are just sociopaths. "Terrorists" in the truest sense.

(More to follow. I'm feeling "heady.")

"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.”