I’m riding a giant were-jackal over the high plains of Leng.  Life is good; on a daily basis I kill an evil wizard, three apyodons, and usually acquire a magic amulet or two.  I’m chilling by my campfire with my were-jackal—Bitefighter—grilling up some leoptrix steaks.  Suddenly, I see a sinister quartet of cloaked wanderers crest a nearby dune.  I jump to my feet, holding my greatsword Akanax up in guard position.  “Ho, travelers!” I yell at them.  “State your business!”  They throw back their hoods revealing dyed hair and sallow, metal-filled faces.  Emo-poets!  The darkest of sorcerers!  All of them are bursting with skinny-fat, a cratering of acne that would cow the most ardent lover of pepperoni pizzas, and a distinct lack of muscle tone.  Such is the Way of Emo.  They begin chanting their evil shit-speech, filling the air with black, miasmic runes that stream from their mouths in winding patterns.  I’m slashing at the air with Akanax, briefly slowing their snake-like spells of Pure Shit, but the runes reform and come at me again.  Horror upon horrors, I see Bitefighter enveloped by coiling lines of Emo, and he thrashes on the ground, crying in heart-splitting whimpers.  I stretch my hand toward him and scream, “BITEFIGHTER!” but then the spells are on me as well.  My body tries to reject them; I’m spewing filth both from my mouthhole and butthole, but it’s no use; there is no evil more pervasive than Emo.  As the world fades, I reach into my pouch and grasp an enchanted curio that a Hektanian hedge witch once described to me as an “eReader,” and press a button on it labeled “ON.”  I see its screen light up with the words ECHO.  Magic flash.  Lightning crashes down from the sky, forming into a blazing Stephen King.  He takes off his glasses, revealing that his visage bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael Whelan’s depiction of Roland Deschain, and unleashes a Cyclops-worthy optic blast from his eyes.  The black spell-weaves unwind and disappear in spectacular twists of rainbow light, and King thunders in a triple-toned, dimension-transcendent voice:  “You dare to call yourselves writers??? You DARE?”  The emo-poets retreat, sobbing out apologies for inflicting their vulgar idiocy upon the world.  King gives me a thumbs-up, helps me to my feet, and pats my shoulder.  “Keep up the good work,” he says, grinning.  “Love the Dark Tower references in Echo.”  Before my star-struck eyes, he disappears in a fluttering twinkle.

Quick!  You’re enjoying the crap out of a fantasy dreamscape, but you’re suddenly accosted by Emo-poets!  What do you do???  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle