I’m hanging out with some writers at the local campus, going over their pieces and offering advice. We’ve spent a few hours chatting and reading so I decide to take a bathroom break. When I return to the circle of chairs, my heart stops: one of the guys is holding an all-too-familiar set of glasses. I slowly raise my hands and say, “Don’t. Move.” He replies, “Why, what’s the big deal with these?” In a measured tone I explain, “They were worn by a now-vanquished literature professor who engaged in unholy adherence to grammar. The evil within them must have helped them escape from the university catacombs and—” He interrupts me with a laugh. “like the grammar nazis you’re always writing about? Don’t be ridiculous.” Before I can tackle him he puts on the glasses. His face registers a single instant of horrible shock—like someone just cowpunched the poor bastard—before eldritch lights begin swirling around him, enveloping him in a haze of miasmic brown. I hear crying babies and demonic laughter. When the mist clears, I see that my fellow writer is still there, but he’s adopted the hunched back, the nonexistent jawline, and the primly pursed lips of Professor Feekle, the previous owner of the glasses. The Feekle-thing raises its arms, and paperclips and pencils begin to telekinetically circle its hands. Out of desperation, I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Suddenly, everybody’s holding an assault rifle or suppressive fire weapon. “OPEN FIRE!” I scream, and we all lose sight of Feekle in the light of dozens of muzzle blasts. After we’ve each gone through a few mags, the shooting dies down. Feekle is stumbling around his knees—hurt but not out. I’m about to yell at everyone to run for their lives when Bruce Lee jumps out of an interdimensional portal and knocks Feekle across the room with a one-inch punch. As he disappears, Shaft teleports in and decapitates the demon-professor with a mighty pimp hand. We all stare at each other, our hearts going a mile a minute, our skin still prickled from a massive adrenaline dump. Did that just happen?
One day, that damn fool youngster in your band of adventurers (or writers) is going to summon a Cthulu-level threat to existence. On that day, fight back with hundreds of rounds, the one-inch punch, and of course…nothing beats the pimp hand. 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