Predator Press
[LOBO]
My tires screamed in agony against the parking lot asphalt.
The warehouse of the media distributor I've worked at for two years was
on fire.
An alarm blared. I noticed other cars in the parking lot, and this tells me there are co-workers inside. I grabbed my codekey and tried the door against hope. If the electricity is out, I would have to plow my car –my beloved 1990 Plymouth Horizon, fully equipped with optional AM radio and brakes on
all tires- through a weak wall thirty feet to my right.
But the codekey fucking
worked.
Thick black smoke billowed out, and I ducked under it. I covered my mouth for no reason I can readily think of; the air just seemed too thick to breathe. Lars Arson, Phoebe, and a handful of other vaguely familiar employees were crawling and wheezing to the door I opened. Blind from the smoke, I made a left. Forty feet, right, climb fifteen steps … Thinking quickly, I topple a shelf of thick philosophy books. You know, to
distract the fire.
… Holy shit, it's hot.
… right … left. Smoke poured from the nursery as I ran by. Then I passed a small group of nuns as they choked and wheezed prayers, presumably for fire extinguishers.
Can barely breathe. I am so tired.
I arrive at my department, the door conspicuously labeled “Adult Materials,” and then the rescue operation begins.
***
By the time the fire department arrived, I had six pallets worth of “adult materials” stacked in the parking lot. My clothes, hair and eyebrows burning, I am frantically trying to extinguish them.
“Hey!” a fireman says, jumping from his truck. “Is there anyone in there?”
“Yes!” I scream. “The entire Marilyn Chambers collection, and most of Traci Lords!”
Predator Press 
