Behind the Scenes: Nyota Uhura

Predator Press

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Life began unspectacularly for Nyota Uhura. And after years of hard work, she was set to graduate top of her cosmetology class. But due to a typographical error, she was recruited to the starship Enterprise as Captain Kirk’s Communications Officer and Chief Exfoliator.

“Communications Officer,” however, would be a sad irony for Nyota as she was wildly dyslexic: during Romulan and Klingon attacks she would run up and down the ship screaming, “Trela Der! Trela Der!” This directly led to the destruction of Enterprises I, II, V, Va, theVIIb, and the much ballyhooed IX.2 -as well as numerous models of the Reliant, a school bus, and at least four poorly-documented bicycles.

Soon thereafter, her arrest at a Star Trek convention for the assault of George Lucas made the papers worldwide. She would subsequently tell police, “I kept punching [Lucas] until my knuckles could feel the inside of the back of his head.” Uhura nonetheless denied any motivation involving the hot Star Trek v Star Wars rivalry. “I just wanted [Lucas] to stop making shitty movies. Somebody should have done that in 1983.”

Now experimenting with drugs, Uhura's behavior only became increasingly erratic. According to Wikipedia, “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock sees Uhura take an assignment in the transporter room as part of a plot to steal the Enterprise. After locking a colleague in a closet, Uhura uses the transporter station to beam Kirk, Leonard McCoy and Hikaru Sulu to the Enterprise so they can use it to rescue Spock from the Genesis Planet.”

Uhura’s prosecutors found this defense preposterous. “She locked a guy in a closet?“ said District Attorney Jorge Sackwood. “Okay. Forget that the future doesn’t even have bathrooms … but there is a closet in the Transporter Room? Why? Is it full of red shirts? Or is it simply there for Sulu to come out of?”

Disillusioned with her military career -and now hopelessly addicted to Fuzzy Navels and a myriad of over-the-counter cold medications- Uhura’s downward spiral would lead to feelance work with Vivid Entertainment. 2011 would see the release of a poorly-produced sex tape with NFL star Bret Lockett, something Uhura’s agent disavows as her having been “heavily intoxicated and exploited.” The agent would continue on to say, “Were she fully in command of her faculties at the time it never would have happened. She thought she was making a tape with Hines Ward.”

After an embarrassing appearance on History Channel’s Pawn Stars in an attempt to sell her tricorder and phaser, Ohura finally caught a romantic break and started dating Corey "Big Hoss" Harrison. And because she never did a film with Nicolas Cage or Rob Schneider, this was the same year she was awarded two Predator Press Oscars, six Predator Press Emmys, and three Predator Press Nobel Peace Prizes.

Ohura and Harrison intend to wed this year.

-As soon as they resolve the ongoing Tribble situation.

Tools

Predator Press

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"I bought a tool today."

"Wow," says Barbarossa, genuinely impressed. Setting the phone on 'speaker,' he proceeded to trim his beard. "What kind?"

"A screwdriver of some kind. Kinda 'T' shaped. Heavy on the end you hit stuff with."

"That sounds more like a hammer."

"It drives screws just fine."

My City is Gone

Predator Press

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Before I do a post on Mark A. Rayner's newest and seminal work -the one starring me- I should probably explain where I've been for the past month.

See, every once in a while the Earth tries to kill me. But the problem is that I'm on Earth, and the Earth is dumb and has pisspoor aim. World War II, Chernobyl, Paris Hilton, September 11, Katrina, … the list of the Earth's inept, bungled efforts to murder me is virtually endless.

But this time the Earth tried something uncharacteristically clever. A month ago, watching Thursday Night Football peacefully from my basement apartment, I heard commotion upstairs. Assuming the couple living above were in a particularly virulent argument, I did what every hero does: I turned the television up to drown it out.

When the door –out of my field of vision- got kicked in, I was annoyed. When four flashlight beams swirled in, I was confused. When the SWAT team captain's boot was suddenly on my neck, I was indignant. “I am the Senior LOBOian Ambassador to the United States! A national treasure. My blog readers will not stand for this! Your badges will be shoved up your asses so far they'll be mistaken as dental work-!”

Clearly they weren't Predator Press readers. When I came to, the bleeding had slowed considerably. Handcuffed to a chair, I wondered furiously why you people hadn't rescued me yet -it was, after all, one measly SWAT team. Some of them weren't even carrying automatic weapons, preferring shotguns instead. Have all the millions and millions Predator Press readers gone soft?

I would not learn until later the Earth was way ahead of us this time. She had distracted you all with a rather diabolic diversion: Superstorm Sandy. Now I love you readers. Seriously. But when a natural disaster occurs, nobody stops to think that maybe it's an elaborate plot to kill LOBO? That's the oldest trick in the book! You people better start thinking these things through.

So I was brought in for questioning. Supposedly, roughly ten pounds of marijuana and twenty guns were found on the premises -all of which I was completely oblivious. I had a separate entrance to the house, through the garage to my basement apartment. I didn't have keys to the upstairs. Utterly unhelpful, they released me to walk twenty two miles home in the freezing cold to a totally trashed apartment. Phil II, obviously rattled by the search and seizure, hissed as I assessed the situation.

The place was sacked. All “recording devices” were confiscated.

This unfortunately included my computers and cellphone.

I had no access to my fantasy football team.

-I had no access to porn!

And things got somehow got worse. I wasn't on the lease, so Phil II and I were technically trespassing. While I desperately searched for an apartment, the homeowner was essentially looting the place of valuable televisions and electronics, and would change the locks while I was at work. So for three weeks I would randomly come “home” locked out. But I had an ID reflecting my address, so the locksmiths would just let me right back in at $75 a pop. The next day I would have to spring Phil II out of the Humane Society at $40 a pop. And indeed I had a visceral joy perplexing the landlord with continued access, and how the evil cat, farmed away, would mysteriously return despite their effort.

I am building a new city now.

What? Too Soon?

Predator Press

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ExtremePumpkins.com

Anchor Management

Predator Press

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"You're not going to drown in the river," says Alex, in another attempt to coax me into the boat. "It's only five feet deep."

"I know that," I says. "But I'm only ten inches thick."

Rejection Coverage 2012

Predator Press

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The Showtunes Must Go On

Predator Press

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Slightly bleary, President Barack Obama pads to the breakfast table in his bathrobe, a series of newspapers -with stories already highlighted for his attention- crooked under his arm. The rest of the family out of town, the large empty table only seems to underline the eerie quiet.

Obama presses a discrete button built into his chair, an aide allows himself in.

“Good morning sir,” says the aide.

“I guess that depends on what you have to say,” Obama smiles, eyes still skimming his newspapers. “What’s on my agenda today?”

The aide flips through his clipboard. “Well there’s the war, the economy, taxes, gays in the military, the other war-“

Obama groans. “Jesus. You people might as well have those pre-printed on your stationary.”

“There has been some movement in the Middle East Peace Process.”

“Yeah," Obama guffaws. "Whatever.”

“Kim Jong Un is here requesting an audience.”

“I don’t understand a word that guy says. He’s, like, French or something.” Obama yawns deeply. “What would you do?”

“As President?”

“Yes.”

“With my wife and kids out of town?  I would probably just surf porn I suppose.”

“Can’t,” says Obama. “My wife found the line item in the budget I pay for it out of.”

"Ouch,” the aide winces.

“Let’s back up. What about that ‘gays in the military’ thing?"

“People of,” the aide coughs, “’alternate lifestyles’ are feeling persecuted out of serving in the armed forces.”

“Wait.  These people want to enlist? They’re aware of the dress code, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well what’s the problem? Don’t we have enemies that need a good smacking around?"

“Not really.”

“How about one that should be patronized condescendingly during an ambush makeover?

“Kim Jong Un maybe?”

“Word," laughs Obama.  Fist-bumping ensues. "He wouldn’t understand a damn thing they said. It would be hilarious.  But in all seriousness, we can’t, under any circumstances, allow homosexuals to get killed in war.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Too valuable.  You know what happens to an America without gays?”

“No.”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. We had a whole Top Secret study done.  We would have full saturation in six months if we're lucky.  And anyone alive a year later better damn well like Coors Light, playing pool, and NASCAR.”

The aide shuddered visibly.

“No, homosexuals can’t be allowed to get in the military, period.  They're a national resource.” Obama scratched his chin, pondering aloud. “And we can’t ask them about their sexuality directly anymore-"

“Wait. Can I ask you some questions about that ‘Pittsburgh’ thing-?"

Obama snaps his fingers. “I got it,” he says with authority. “During boot camp, there’s a mandatory twenty-four hour David Hasselhoff marathon.  And all the recruits get nothing but water and Cheetos."

“I’m not following you,” the aide squirmed.

“Then discharge everyone with glowing orange genitals.”

“Ah. Medical reasons.”

“And this 'condition'" Obama makes quote marks in the air, "-no, diagnosis- makes it impossible to serve in the military as the occasional strobe effect could inavertently give away their location to the enemy."

"So to keep gays out of the military, you want to make up a disease -'Bioluminescent-Affected Mammallian Disorder'-"

"Uh-huh.  'BLAMD.' Perfect."

"That has no other symptoms or cure?"

"Excellent."

"-To save America from becoming Pittsburgh."

"It's genius," Obama smiled. “Now get me Rick Astley on the phone! Stat.”