I’ve been hired as Aragorn’s personal assistant, and ironically, everyone on his staff agrees that it was more fun during the War of the Ring.  “I’m bored, Kent,” he grumbles to me.  I say, “I can always arrange an outing with Arwen, milord.  Perhaps a foray into Mirkwood to stir up some excitement?”  He replies, “No, nothing to do with Arwen.”  A fearful shadow passes over his face and he mutters, “She’s shown undue enthusiasm for an activity known as ‘pegging.’ ”  “What’s that?” I ask.  Irritation replaces the dismay on his face and he snaps, “Never you mind!  We just need to—”  Suddenly the alarum sounds, and we rush to an overlook in the throne room.  Aragorn’s knuckles whiten as he clutches the waist-high guard rail.  “Emo-poets!” he spits.  I follow his narrowed gaze and see armies of nerds scaling the keep’s walls.  He turns to me, excitement writ plain in his features.  “This is what we need!” he exclaims as he grabs me by my shoulders.  “Quick!  Rally my generals!  We need to—”  Suddenly he staggers in place, eyes widening.  He throws his head back and screams as blood erupts from his eyes and ears, spins around, revealing a spreading red spot on the seat of his pants (I know—gross) and we see a flood of emo-poets breaching the throne room, chanting their dark, non-rhyming drivel.  It hits me too:  My genitals begin to wither and before my disbelieving gaze, I see my hands wrinkle and grow liver spots.  “Save yourself Kent,” my king gasps, his hair now a bird’s nest of pale strands on a feeble, old man’s skull.  “This is a greater evil than we were prepared for.”  The lead emo-poet approaches in slo-mo, heralded by evil ring-wraith music.  He dramatically unsheathes his weapon, and instead of a blade, it’s a giant dong the size of a greatsword.  Aragorn sees it and rasps, “No!  No more pegging!  Did Arwen send you?  Damn her!”  Out of options, I reach a trembling hand into my pocket and withdraw a book I’ve been working on called “Echo.”  Magic flash.  Two small Batarangs knife into me and the King’s forearms, filling us full of anti-emo antidote, (which I later find out is a mix of ribs, brisket, and the shavings off of Chuck Norris’s favorite kettlebell).  Our unnatural aging stops and we stagger to our feet.  As we do so we see Batman launch himself into the midst of the emo-poets.  He punches and kicks their stupid emo faces.  Dyed hair and faces with at least five dozen piercings apiece flip wildly about.  Once he’s done, he picks up one of their dong-swords, looking curiously at it.  Aragorn flinches backward like an abused dog.  Batman throws it to the side and barks, “Come on.  There’s more of them storming the keep.  We need to call up your reserves.”  Aragorn looks uncertain.  Batman notes the look, stops at the door, and says, “Unless you want all of Gondor to get pegged to death.”  The True King’s eyes harden.  He turns to me and says, “I want archers on the parapets and skirmishers in the courtyard.  Deploy messenger pigeons and light the beacons.  Direct all non-fighting citizens to the emergency egress tunnels.”  He strides out of the room, drawing Anduril.  “Finally!  Perhaps this will convince milady to go easy on my ringpiece!”

The emo-poets are coming, all equipped with pegging paraphernalia that could double as greatswords.  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