Strafing fire explodes the sand around us. Who knew that the titans of HGTV and the Food Network—they with their gentle smiles and inoffensive pleasantries—would have harbored so much hate for us freewheeling writer-bachelors? Our persecutors have merged into the uberpower known as The Neatness, and have forced me and my kind to the very ends of the earth. Right now I’m running like hell across the dusty, rock-speckled sand of Arid Zone 09-Alpha—what used to be known as the Mojave desert. The WHUP-WHUP-WHUP of helicopter blades assaults our ears as Giada, Rachael, and Nigella pursue us from within the cockpits of Intimidator War Choppers, raining down blasts f hellfire. One of my fellow writers—a mom’s-basement-bound nerd named Herbert Kornfeld who’s probably one of those artists trying to score a date through his work—turns and looks at the moonlit sky, transfixed by our pursuers’ hotness. “NO!” I yell, cutting back to get him. A missile screams down from one of the choppers—Giada’s, I think—and Herbert disappears in a blaze of red-orange fire. I drop to my knees, tears streaming down my face. The Intimidators surround me and bathe me in the harsh glow of Nightsun spotlights. “KENT,” a megaphonic voice blares. “YOU ARE THE WORST OF THE LOT; YOU WITH YOUR IMPRESSIVE GENITALIA AND YOUR EXHORTATIONS TO PURSUE THE CREATIVE PATH…PREPARE FOR YOUR ‘JUST DESSERTS.’ ” A shrieking, witchy cackle follows the pun and I rise to my feet, unwilling to go die in this perverted nightmare. Persecution of writers? Hot food hosts turned oppressor? And now PUNS? (shitty humor has always hurt my face when I’ve been forced to smile politely at it) I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. I see black dots flit out from the shadow of a nearby mesa, and upon looking closer, realize that it’s a flock of barbarian-mounted pterodactyls. A metal version of the Jurassic Park theme song bursts through the air, and wonder upon wonders, the barbarians begin two-handing a variety of heavy machine-guns. The air is filled with battle-pteros, hellfire missiles, and return fire from my prehistoric saviors. I see Nigella’s face twist in rage as a ptero-warrior swings around to her six and blows through a couple of engines with a well-aimed burst. As the rest of the choppers crash into the desert, one of the pteros swoops down and snatches me up. “We will teach you our ways,” the giant lizard rumbles to me. I feel sorrow at the lost hotness (Giada, Nigella and Rachael—know that outside of this ad, I sing your praises), but it’s quickly overshadowed at the prospect of becoming a pterodactyl-riding resistance fighter. Yea buddy!
If you’re ever on the run from the forces of HGTV, it would behoove you to call on a legion of ptero-warriors. Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle