Predator Press
[Mr I]
"I still don't get why I have to wear a dress," says LOBO, fidgeting in his Baptismal robes. "How long until I can start smiting people?"
"Well, that all depends on you," says Father Fritz. "When's the last time to went to Confession?"
LOBO holds up ten fingers, arching Fritz's eyebrow.
"But what about those lousy infidels?" LOBO complains. "And the pagans? Hm? And the filthy whores? The world is just crawling with filthy whores--"
"If you could smite anyone you wanted to, who would you smite?"
"Who are those pascifist guys that brush ants out of their way as they walk?"
"The Jains?"
"Yeah," says LOBO. "I'll bet I could beat the crap outta one of them guys."
"I'll tell you what," says Father Fritz, comfortingly. "After Confession, we'll let you smite one Jehovah’s Witness. But just one."
"Lousy Jehovah rat-finks, testifying against Jehovah like that ... they got it coming."
"Indeed," agrees Fritz.
"Can I torture him for a while?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Maybe I can get him to cough up a list of names from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program."
Wednesday
Monday
Borne Again
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
***
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
[Mr. I]
As you might have guessed, I haven’t been in a church in a really long time.
It’s curious; imported marble, huge paintings, statues and sculptures, exotic lumber fixtures … As I enter one of the most opulent, lavish, expensive facilities in the area, I'm immediately dimminished by vacuous, baudy opulence that oddly reminds me of “blessed are the meek” sermons from my youth.
This place is almost as big as mine.
Well, the meek obviously have this blessed thing handled which is good … let’s just hope they’re not hungry.
Father Fritz's office did not disappoint, either. He stands as I enter, shaking my hand over the hardwood oak desk. "Pleased to finally meet you, Mr ..." he says expectantly.
"Cut the happity-horshit, padre. Why am here?" I demand coolly, sitting.
Father Fritz hesitates thoughtfully. He doesn't sit.
"Recent political events have mandated that a member of your employ has been granted a certain amount of," --he pauses in obvious distaste-- "'authority' over our school," he says.
I can sense he's being cautious. To keep up the appearance of utter ‘cool’, I start snacking on these tasteless, individually-wrapped circular white wafers in an expensive-looking, ornate gold bowl. "Who, LOBO?" I says, chewing. "Look, that's really not my problem, is it? Maybe you should fete your candidates a little more thoroughly." Grimacing, I add, "Christ, these crackers are terrible--"
Fritz slams a hardcopy of our soon-to-be-released First-Edition, full-color Predator Press Archives Volume 1--retailing at $74.99 just in time for Christmas-- loudly on the desk.
"It would appear," says Fritz, "That this is really both of our problems."
"LOBO has the attention span of a retarded gnat," I says, buttoning my jacket as I stand, throwing the empty plasic wrappers in a crucifix-emblazoned wastepaper basket. "I'm sure he will lose interest in this quicker than he never had it in the first place. Now, if that concludes our 'business', I'll just--"
"SILENCE!" demands Fritz, cracking a ruler on the desk.
Now a lot of things happen, all at once: I sat quickly, first off --dude broke out a fucking ruler on me; I didn't realize he was serious-- which expanded the circumference of my jacket to critical mass and launched the button directly at Fritz's forehead.
Fritz, eyes serenely closed, parries the button with an added, graceful ruler swing. It looked so natural, it seemed an afterthought.
“How,” he says, “can you justify such damnable lies and fantasies?”
The button lands gracefully in his outstretched hand.
“Mostly by blow jobs from attractive, morally loose, consenting adult females and bricks of untaxable cash," I inexplicably confess. "How about you?” I counter, regaining composure.
“Those revolting days of endless sin are over,” says Fritz confidently. “Our new ‘Superintendent’ has seen The Light. Even now, as we speak, he is converting, and will soon swear a solemn vow to live his life in Service of The Lord.”
"Okay," I says, holding up my hands. "I can handle this. As long as you assholes aren't Catholic, anyway ..."
Saturday
AGNES
Predator Press
[LOBO]
ay Bultema wasn't a particularly handsome guy, but he was interesting looking. Something about him, his demeanor, something, drew your attention.
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
***
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
[LOBO]
The quintessential soon-to-be-former front man for my first band, Cheap Thrills, was sleeping lightly with his head against the train window as I studied him closely, trying to put my finger on it.
At twenty-two, he was fully five or six years older than I, and I would be lying if I said there wasn't some level of older-brother hero-worship at play.
Ray and I were on the train home from a six week tour of the east coast; the band's bus dropped us at some long-forgotten train station in Jersey, and we dragged ourselves exhaustedly aboard.
It was then that Ray announced he was done.
I can't say I blame him. All the trouble I could've been in, Ray would've had double. I did half of the last year as an illegal high school dropout, and I still wasn't old enough to go into the bars where we "made our bones". Ray would've most certainly done time in a prison for having contributed to my delinquency. It was a particularly grueling tour this time as well; we were broke, and Ray had to sell some of his equipment to get us home.
But we were doing something more important than all that.
Until now.
Our meager and battered luggage was crammed awkwardly around our feet, and on top of his was a new pink "Hard Rock Café Miami" book bag, a gift for his rarely seen five year old daughter. Ray was giving up everything in hopes of rebuilding his shattered family.
"Yeah my everything, too," I thought. I wasn't really as angry with him as maybe I should have been. Even as a teenager I knew that sometimes the toughest decisions in life are ones where, ultimately, there is really no choice at all.
The announcement for my stop comes over the intercom, and he wakes, catching me staring at him.
"What?" he says blearily.
"Look," I says. "I love you, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But you are one ugly motherfucker. I mean, I know monkfish that wouldn't fuck you."
He laughs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucking sick of looking at your flycatcher myself. You look forty years old."
Probably true; we hadn't had good sleep in days. "This is my stop," I says, reaching for my bags.
"Your parents going to be cool?"
"I dunno," I shrug. "No."
"Well, you know where to find me."
"Yeah," I says, trying to sound aloof. "So long," I says, shaking his hand.
I struggled with my bag through the thin isle. Toward the end of the car, it snagged, strangely firm. I turned to look, and realized that the little pink bookbag had hooked itself on a ticket clip; when I grabbed my bag, I must have accidentally reached through one of the pack shoulder straps. And empty, it's so light I never noticed I had it.
"Shit," I says turning around. Retracing my arduous path back to Ray, the doors at the front of the car slide open, and a guy in a trench coat and Army fatigues slips in quietly. I'm about only about four seats behind Ray when he swings the shotgun out from under his coat and proceeds to open fire on the passengers.
By the second or third blast, somehow in my panic I've sort of collapsed on the floor between some seats on opposite and behind where Ray is. Oh God, Ray-- Another seismic roar, and blood arcs across the window behind where he was; illuminated by dehumanizing fluorescents, a pale, pink mist of blood and bone fills the air.
Screams. Pleas. Panic surges through the remaining survivors. People were trying to flee. Curled into a tiny, terrified ball, I can see the gunman's heavy boots under the seats and through the smoke, calmly advancing through the car, crunching over broken plastic shards and glass. More shots; the plastic molding of the train's interior vibrates, resonating each explosion.
He stops more or less right in front of me.
It's quiet.
I peek out from behind the empty bookbag, and I'm staring into a silvery circle, bellowing white smoke. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.
Moments pass. Minutes maybe. The acrid smell of gunpowder sears my nose.
The shooter sighs audibly.
I force my eyes open. He seems frozen ... wrestling with something in his head. Mouth open, his broken, jagged teeth don't seem like they would fit together right.
He blinks, shoulders seeming to relax a little. "When you get home tonight," he says in a thin, furious southern drawl, gesturing at the bookbag, "Yer gonna give that little girl a hug, an tell her how much you love her."
I stare, silent and bewildered in yet-unmeasured horror.
And the he was gone.
Thursday
Strictly Carnivore
Predator Press
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
***
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
[LOBO]
What a great way to celebrate the birth of www.predatorpress.com! Goddamn it, I can't say enough about how cool this blog looks now in full color.
Full Color people! Best $75,000 we ever spent. Just look at those deep, dark blues. And those ... other cool lookin' blues. And how about this white? Even through this nicotine-stained monitor, it's fucking screaming pale yellow!
(Hmmm ... come to think of it, maybe this is why everyone in my porn looks like they have hepatitis ... And shit, this is the fourth new monitor I've had to buy since June. Can't someone invent something that prevents this problem?)
Anyways, I haven't had a chance to tell you how we came about "acquiring" www.predatorpress.com.
See, back when Ethan and I started this multi-billion dollar publication, the “Predator Press” was a wildlife preservation magazine. They registered the site, but, as their priorities were the preservation of wildlife, they never developed it. Not even a lousy homepage for chrissake!
Ethan and his cadre of lawyers invited me to come along for the “negotiations”.
Intrigued, I accepted.
We pull up to this shack in the middle of the wilderness, and the occupant –an earthy-looking type oldster— stops a surgical procedure on a wounded badger to greet us. He has a bandaged baby falcon, not six inches long, clinging precariously on his shoulder.
“If this is a 'wildlife preserve'," I demand, "where are all the cages, you filthy, hypocritical communist fraud?"
As the good-natured geezer replies, the badger stirs sleepily. Anesthesia wearing off, it sniffs the old man briefly, and then licks his nose. Then, leaping off of the makeshift surgical table, it scampers out the door. “There are no cages here my friend,” the doddering coot says in a deep, peaceful, well-cultured voice. “This is a haven for all Nature. It’s not a prison. It is a sacred, important place, and the ecological destiny of the world depends on it.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you gentlemen drove all the way out here, but as I told you over the phone, www.predatorpress.com is not for sale.”
I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but every lawyer in Ethan’s 'cadre of lawyers' is a 8th level blackbelt, schooled for two years by Buddhist monks in a Predator Press training camp just west of the Himalayas: fresh out of law school, these Ivy League recruits ate dirt and learned to be really pissed off about having to learn all that Buddhist crap and, well, eating dirt.
We beat the fuck out of that old man.
And say what you will about “preserving wildlife”, but those falcons are pretty tasty with a little A-1 …
Wednesday
WTF
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Well, Joshua slipped from my clutches despite my dazzling display of mathematical prowess.
Of course I'm distressed; I definitely had that little shit deeply pegged as one of them commie pinko metric-system algebra lovers, just seething with potential; I figured that kid'd toss over his own mother for a Tickle Me Elmo.
And now, on top of it all, it turns out that this whole "getting an audit" is a bad thing.
I blame Mr Insanity.
This week sucks already.
[LOBO]
Well, Joshua slipped from my clutches despite my dazzling display of mathematical prowess.
Of course I'm distressed; I definitely had that little shit deeply pegged as one of them commie pinko metric-system algebra lovers, just seething with potential; I figured that kid'd toss over his own mother for a Tickle Me Elmo.
And now, on top of it all, it turns out that this whole "getting an audit" is a bad thing.
I blame Mr Insanity.
This week sucks already.
Monday
Synergy
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
The Auditors are here.
"Chop, chop!" I says to Phoebe. "I need those NAFTA projections finalized in twenty minutes."
"We need a cure for cancer this very second," she replies, blowing off her nails.
"Wow!" says LOBO, slamming the door behind him. "Who is that new hot chick meeting with Cobe? Is she a temp?" He grabs his heart, looking to the sky, "Solomente Tu Este, Me Amore. Oh, those beautiful blue eyes ... "
"She's a Hawley Enterprises Auditor," I says.
"Are we getting audited?" LOBO asks excitedly.
"No," I reply. "The Predator Press Printshop is. They ran up 4.6 billion dollars last year for blog ink."
"But we're not getting audited?" LOBO frowns.
"No."
"What would we need to do to have a long, eviscerating audit, probing every inch of the entire editing staff?" he asks.
"We would have had to had questionable expenses last year," I offer. "But we came in under budget projections, and turned a profit of 2.6-"
Where's the document shredder?" LOBO asks, dialing.
"We don't have a document shredder," I reply helplessly.
"Hello, Cobe?" he says into the phone.
pause
"You're breaking up real bad. Something about 'you're with an auditor?'"
another pause
"Can't understand a word," says LOBO. "This phone is crap. Put me on speakerphone."
"LOBO," says Cobe. "We're very busy."
LOBO grins at me as he pours gasoline all over the room. Then, into the phone he says clearly, "Cobe, what exactly are we supposed to do with all these bags of cash?"
[Mr. I]
The Auditors are here.
"Chop, chop!" I says to Phoebe. "I need those NAFTA projections finalized in twenty minutes."
"We need a cure for cancer this very second," she replies, blowing off her nails.
"Wow!" says LOBO, slamming the door behind him. "Who is that new hot chick meeting with Cobe? Is she a temp?" He grabs his heart, looking to the sky, "Solomente Tu Este, Me Amore. Oh, those beautiful blue eyes ... "
"She's a Hawley Enterprises Auditor," I says.
"Are we getting audited?" LOBO asks excitedly.
"No," I reply. "The Predator Press Printshop is. They ran up 4.6 billion dollars last year for blog ink."
"But we're not getting audited?" LOBO frowns.
"No."
"What would we need to do to have a long, eviscerating audit, probing every inch of the entire editing staff?" he asks.
"We would have had to had questionable expenses last year," I offer. "But we came in under budget projections, and turned a profit of 2.6-"
Where's the document shredder?" LOBO asks, dialing.
"We don't have a document shredder," I reply helplessly.
"Hello, Cobe?" he says into the phone.
pause
"You're breaking up real bad. Something about 'you're with an auditor?'"
another pause
"Can't understand a word," says LOBO. "This phone is crap. Put me on speakerphone."
"LOBO," says Cobe. "We're very busy."
LOBO grins at me as he pours gasoline all over the room. Then, into the phone he says clearly, "Cobe, what exactly are we supposed to do with all these bags of cash?"
Wednesday
TREASON
Predator Press
[LOBO]
"Alright," I says to the kid. "How much homework do you have to do every day?"
Joshua pauses for a second, confused.
He holds up ten stubby little fingers.
"Okay," I acknowledge. "About an hour. You get on your bus at like 7:20 every morning, and leave on one at 3:10. And get home at, like, 3:25. Am I correct?"
Joshua squirms.
"Well buddy, that's about (x3)(4)=(X-6) more than the average adult commits to their careers, and then bitches about how they have no time." I walk behind Joshua, and put my arm over his shoulder. "But I've got good news too. I'm making you President of Student Council. And your first act as President will be to announce that school is done at noon, and that homework is illegal under penalty of death. Would you like that? All you and your motivated constituents have to do is swear a dark allegiance to me. No big deal."
"I like to color!" he giggles shyly.
"This isn't supposed to be a negotiation, you little shit ... "
[LOBO]
"Alright," I says to the kid. "How much homework do you have to do every day?"
Joshua pauses for a second, confused.
He holds up ten stubby little fingers.
"Okay," I acknowledge. "About an hour. You get on your bus at like 7:20 every morning, and leave on one at 3:10. And get home at, like, 3:25. Am I correct?"
Joshua squirms.
"Well buddy, that's about (x3)(4)=(X-6) more than the average adult commits to their careers, and then bitches about how they have no time." I walk behind Joshua, and put my arm over his shoulder. "But I've got good news too. I'm making you President of Student Council. And your first act as President will be to announce that school is done at noon, and that homework is illegal under penalty of death. Would you like that? All you and your motivated constituents have to do is swear a dark allegiance to me. No big deal."
"I like to color!" he giggles shyly.
"This isn't supposed to be a negotiation, you little shit ... "
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