I’m at a company BBQ, wandering off to the bathroom, when the boss’s wife sneaks up behind me and puts me in a rear-naked choke, hooks sunk in and everything. (Has anyone else noted the rise of the alpha soccer mom? They’re exactly what you’d expect if you gave Nietschze a gajillion dollars to raise the perfect assassin) She whispers into my ear: “My office-drone husband may only be two inches…but he’s thick. Quit making fun of him in your stupid ads.” I try to gurgle a protest as I work my choke defense by chinning into the crook of her elbow and crab-walking towards her choke-hand, but she’s too damn good, and she only sinks her arm deeper into my neck. She grins and hisses, “You’re gonna wish your daddy pulled out early.” The world starts fuzzing, and large blooms of black begin erupting in my vision. Ah God…I’m sorry that I peed on the toilet paper when I was seven…I’m sorry that I blew a booger onto my neighbor’s doorknob that one time he was being a doucher…I scrabble a hand into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A blonde bob appears at the edge of my vision. The face is shadowed, but once the figure comes closer, I see it’s none other than Martha Stewart. I hear her snicker and say, “Jiu-jitsu. I learned that on Day One during my stay in the Big House.” She turns, spits, and deadpans, “Amateur.” The boss’s wife begins hollering for her soccer mom allies to come to her aid, but Martha puts a hand over her mouth. “Shhhh….shhhh…it’ll all be over soon.” Then the Food Network Queen pries the soccer mom off me and holds her up with one hand. The soccer mom is screaming and hollering, throwing a series of Krav Maga strikes at Martha. Martha slaps each blow away, her eyes dead and lackluster. It’s like watching an evil version of Neo fighting Agent Smith. Martha rears her right hand back, then shoots it forward—straight into Soccer Mom’s chest. Soccer Mom grips Martha’s forearm with both hands, gasping, her eyes widening as flecks of blood fly from her lips with each stunted breath. Martha pulls out Soccer Mom’s heart with her right hand, simultaneously stiff-arming Soccer Mom away with her left and sending her flying backward. Soccer Mom collapses in a heap and breathes her last. I watch in horror as Martha chows down on the still-beating heart, smears of blood dashed across her face like barbarian war paint. She grins at me and says, “You’re welcome.” I hightail it out of there, knowing that for the rest of my life, I will sleep in a fetal position and be haunted by Martha’s bloody, heart-devouring grin.
There is only one answer for a martial arts expert Soccer Mom. And that is a Hannibal Lecterized Martha Stewart. 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