Mista BLICK

LOBO -Predator Press

I haven't had much time to delve into the VR world. And, until recently, I regarded it merely as "nifty."

But then I got a copy of something that changed my opinion.  There is software on the way that will let you make "handwritten" notes and a really cool 3-D archive system.  Anyone that knows me knows that I have notes EVERYWHERE, and my current organizational skills have me finishing this post February 2027.

Just saving the paper excites me.

"Man you really like that," Barbarossa observes. "Can I try it?"

It was about 6 minutes before he was hurling the writing tools, hoping for explosions.

Acoustic Uterus

LOBO -Predator Press

Outercepted

LOBO -Predator Press

"Hello?"

"Hi Rachel."

"What do you want?"

"Would you bring me up a bottle of water?"  The air in my room is so delightfully cold, I am breathing steam.

"Are you serious?

"I haven't been home for six months," I explain into the phone through the hole in the blankets I am getting oxygen through. "My bed feels like a warm marshmallow."

"You are serious. You just can't come downstairs?"

"I'll let you sleep with me."

"Gina would skin you alive for even saying that."

"I'll let her sleep with me instead."

Suddenly, I hear two loud knocks. My bedroom door opens a few inches and then slams, but there is a bottle of cold water on the floor.

It glitters and sweats in the light from the crack under the door.

Fifteen feet away.

I curse at merciless God, "So am I Job now?"

… and then I remember the drone remote control is on the nightstand.

Cruelinary Skill

LOBO -Predator Press

Hostess "Limited Edition" Wintermint Ding Dongs were so horrifyingly bad, I had to eat a second one just to confirm they tasted like toothpaste.

Weeks -okay months later, still in my freezer, I thought "Oh come on. They couldn't have been that bad."

Yep. Two more.

At this rate, I might hate them enough to buy again next year.

So You've Contracted the Coronavirus

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The Predator Press Center For Disease Control has issued the following recommendations so you do not transmit this disease to me:

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.

The Gentlemanly Thing to Do

LOBO -Predator Press


All this time I could have been writing, I've been thinking about my Twitter crap.  And why Star Wars stormtroopers usually offer the "good guys" a chance to surrender, but are generally killed on sight by everyone else.

A derivative of my Twitter handle in use is by an ex, and we didn't agree on much.  Politics, philosophy, shampoo and other hair products … but her Twitter BLOWED UP when last I checked.  She had like 73,000,000 followers -which is like the entire population of Earth getting split ends and dry scalp.

Well fuck "Earth" I says.  Fuck those stormtroopers too.

I am changing my Twitter ID.


@MistaBlick

Nyx

LOBO -Predator Press

As I slowly wake up, how and why Barbarossa is driving me home from Vegas is growing clearer.

"Man," he says as I slap his hands away from the radio.  "These office parties just aren't the same with out Maddy."

"How far away are we from food?" I demand, scanning billboards.  "And who is 'Maddy?'"

"Mads!" he blurts in disbelief, like that clears it up.  "The crazy girl with all the tattoos?"

Vaguely remembering, I ask "How is she doing?  Hey take this exit, or I'm going to pee in my own car."

"Dude, it only has 16,000 miles on it" he concedes, eyes wide as he decelerates. "She got married in October.  Husband disappeared four days later.  The cops finally issued a warrant to have her questioned, but she violated probation … "  He does a flourish with his free hand. "Poof."

"Huh," I says.  "So Maddy is single?"

"She asks about you all the time."