Happy Yule Whatever

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Dear Santa,

I just heard you are still alive. Wow! They just don't make shotgun blasts and cliffs like they used to, eh?

Well, I just wanted you to know I've been a very, very good boy again despite these many years of neglect.

The following is a list of things that might be a great gift for, um, my nephew:

Aircraft Carrier
Weapons Grade Plutonium
Charlize Theron's non-restaining order protected Phone Number
Zombie Armor

Get Well Soon and hanks!

LOBO

Incoming Wounded

Predator Press

[COBE]

Last month was boring; I spent the whole thing sifting through the blasted concrete of Hawley Enterprises' former parking lot; always, more parts.

Always more parts.

Santa, on the contrary, starving and bloody, askew on the jagged rocks, had been driven insane by two weeks of insufferable agony. He was easy prey.

Always more parts.

Office Lunch Theft

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Due to the graphic nature of this post, I'm going to try and bury it; way under the "current", and well beneath the feeds.

This is solely for the people web-browsing that actually need this advice.

It is regarding office theft. In particular, the theft of people's lunches. I regard this as one of the lowest crimes you can commit against hard-working, honest people.

Now I understand that if you're hungry, you're hungry. Given enough time, you will take food if necessary, irregardless of the moral dilemma.

But I'm not talking about these people. I'm talking about the fuck that just doesn't bother to pack one for themselves. Does it every day as some kind of indirect 'payback' to the company. Does it because they feel 'entitled' to it.

That's the human locust I want.

Once alerted to this scum, Predator Press policy is clear: I'm to buy 99-cent hamburgers, burritos or tacos, and leave them in the refrigerator with well-concealed used condoms buried deeply in the center. Not obvious and on the edges or on top -our Charter is very explicit: "buried deeply in the center".

The nefarious 'activity' tends to stop rather abruptly.

Alchemy

Predator Press

[Mr. I]

For once, I'm with LOBO.

I'm answering the door clutching a $4,000 fake hooker head made by LucasArts, and a cocaine covered mirror.

Blasphemy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I know this sounds crazy, but every year around this time my house gets visits from these teeny little ghosts, ghouls, devils, and Power Rangers, all demanding candy. And no sooner do give em candy and shut the door, and more of the little mooching pagan bastards show up.

Last year, even after I ran out of Tic-Tacs, this diminutive Godless hoard continued to swarm over my home relentlessly. I started giving them whatever I could find; cans of beets, maple syrup, beer, Tupperware lids, ketchup ... I even gave one a whole 5 lbs bag of sugar, in hopes diabetes might scale the vile dwarven hellspawn onslaught back a few notches.

And they kept coming.

On and on through the night, I am for whom the doorbell tolls: a cheery warning of yet another invasion by the insatiably greedy brood. My radio. My microwave. My television (that staggered the little bastard).

But this year, it'll be different.

I'm dressing as R Kelly.

High Tech Redneck

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The largest, most powerful and expensive industrial strength modern-day wood chippers all groaned and screamed to a violent halt when met with the RDO-engineered space alloys that make up Sapphire's seemingly soft, smooth flesh. This last one --the John Deere-- hissed and smoldered after violently blowing a hydraulic 200-ton counterweight; the keyboard melted to slag, and the electronics popped and whined themselves into a permanent, warranty-violated silence.

And, of course, everyone's pissed at me.

"You're an asshole!" she yells up at me, struggling to free her ankle.

"Well you're the one who keeps busting the machines!" I yell down from the control booth, indignant. "C'mon baby," I try vainly to reason through the smoke. "You're a wonderful person, and I really, really do care about you. I just want to be single for a while."

Wiping away a tear, she growls, "Then why were you pushing my head down with a broom?"

"You were dusty!" I repeat.

Blossom

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A well-tanned Babs enters my makeshift Palace-slash-Reception Area-slash-Dining Room-slash-Bedroom, wearing only a loincloth and a long, colorfully-feathered headdress.

The leggy, hardbodied beauty kneels and sets several small bags of Cheetos at my feet.

I think she digs me.

Before she can speak, I put a finger to her lips. "You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, and an infinitely rare, treasured proclaimation that God loves men too. Before you even say a word, I must know your deepest and darkest delights, that I may bathe you in them for as long as we live."

"Mighty Lord LOBO," she says, eyes imploring as she rubs my mighty and lordly thighs, "I like tormenting, and then killing my former lovers,"

"Oh, that is so hot," I says.

"But brilliant, sexy King LOBO," she cries into my lap, "I must exact my revenge upon the killer of my former betrothed. Might you be so merciful as to allow me to toss her into a wood chipper as a gesture of your immortal benevolence?"

"Who, Sapphire?" I says. "By all means!"