“BLEEEUURRRGH”  I dive, tuck, and roll as a stream of vomit narrowly misses me.  “YARK!”  Scrabble sideways as a particularly chunky one shoots past my hips.  My yuppie coworkers have surrounded me at a New Year’s Eve gathering.  What was once an innocuously boring suburban conversation about the latest aspirations for mud-runs and SUVs has turned into a witch hunt starring yours truly; as soon as I told them I wanted to live off my writing they channeled their life frustrations into that time-honored tradition:  puking your brains out at New Year’s.  And it’s all directed towards me.  My boss glares at me with red-rimmed eyes as his lips close around a bottle of vodka.  “Get him!” he yells as he points at me.  “That Ken’ Way…motherrazzumfrazzum writer….BLLLLLLAAAAAAGH!”  I do my best impression of a ninja as I kick off the wall and backflip over his projectile barf.  There’s no way I can hold out.  Open my eReader to Echo.  Magic flash.  Pools of vomit start streaming together like T-1000 after he’s been blown apart, and form into a giant, Clayface-like creature.  “MY NAME IS MOG!  FORMED FROM THE REMNANTS OF YOUR TECHNICOLOR YAWNS, INSPIRED BY YOUR NIGHTMARES OF LIVING FOREVER IN THE DESOLATE TRAPPINGS OF PTA MEETINGS AND YOUR WILLFUL IGNORANCE OF THAT SPOT-ON TV PARABLE:  THE SECRET LIVES OF DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!  PREPARE FOR A RECKONING!”  My coworkers run before Mog like disaster movie extras.  He morphs into a giant river of runny, half-digested Cobb salads and starbucks sandwiches, and envelops my coworkers in their own filth.  I can’t decide whether to laugh or feel sorry.  Who am I kidding; I’m laughing like a maniac, motha ducka!

It’s not outside the realm of possibility; your coworkers may try to drown you in vomit.  In that case, be ready to turn the tables on ’em with a crazy-ass puke monster.  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle