The burger’s halfway to my mouth when it’s backhanded away. Bread, veggies, and patty separate as they arc through the air and rebound off a wall. I instinctively finish biting down, and blink in surprise when my teeth meet with a small click. A bearded, pony-tailed face darts down, an inch away from mine, and says, “Meat’s off the menu, Kent.” Oh no—the self-styled Vegan Vigilantes have interrupted my dinner. Overpowering stank of BO, patchouli, and weakling musk (yep, my own term) invade the grill. Patrons scatter out the back, and the bartender—gods curse his cowardly eyes—disappears behind the counter. Two half-men hold my arms back while one of them stands a table away from me, mixing together the Vegan Vigilantes’ signature shake: Rank, liquefied tofu combined with a potent variant of a highly experimental testosterone blocker. I struggle fruitlessly, my widened eyes fixed on the odious concoction now being lifted towards my lips. Fingers pinch my nose shut and a fist slams into my gut, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. My head’s tilted forcibly back and I have time to scream one last word, Braveheart style: “BITEFIGHTERRRRRR!!!!!” My trusty little 10 lb. terrier runs in from outside, breaking his leash with the force of his charge, and leaps past my waist, snatching my eReader out from my pocket. He noses it open to Echo. Magic flash. A legion of Dino-riders—yoked-ass, metal-as-f*ck barbarian warriors mounted on the backs of talking velocirators—burst into the grill and immediately begin laying waste to handfuls of pasty vegans. Axes and swords whistle through the air; slicing open bellies, carving through the faces. The oldest, most grizzled looking Dino-rider whips out an electric guitar that’s festooned with skulls, and begins wailing on it. The Vegans, who have been raised on weak-sauce BS like the sound of surf and mooing cows or whatever-the-f*ck, immediately begin twitching like they’re having seizures. A second later their eyes roll back, blood trickles from their ears, and they become still. I look toward the lead Dino-rider and say, “Teach me your ways.” He gives me a once-over and asks, “Do you like dinosaurs?” I say, “Yes.” “Do you like metal?” I nod. He grunts and says, “You’re in.” A moment later I’m charging through into the sunset, sitting atop two hundred lbs of super-raptor and the heart-stirring strains of barbarian metal. It sounds just like you’d imagine: Menehmehneh-MEH! Menehmehneh-MEH! Yeeeeaaaahh BUDDDY!
As we enter a dark age, the Vegans will come with their nut-shriveling shakes. The only defense? A gaggle of long-haired, metal-playing Dino-riders. 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