Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

I’m at the office, grimly aware that over a third of my time is spent replying to emails with some noncommittal phrase that expresses that not only have I read the email, but that I also concur with its implications.  Bleh.  I finish adding my own “I agree” to a score of other peoples’, and get up to go to the bathroom.  Perfectly timed as far as I’m concerned—the excretion of waste lining up with my breaking free of circle-jerk email.  I’m in the stall, about to do the necessary, when I hear the squeak of shoes as four of my coworkers enter the bathroom.  The stalls next to me are taken, and I hear a light thump as another two douche-drones lean against my stall door, ensuring that I’m blocked in.  “Hey!”  I yell.  “What the hell are you—”  At that moment, I see four hands flit under the stall dividers—two from the sides and two from under the door.  Each hand is giving me the finger.  The hands disappear and one of them says, “We warned you to stop making fun of our unimaginative brains and our unendowed nethers in your stupid ads, Kent.  And now you will pay.”  The voice sounds muffled, and I realize with dawning horror that it’s coming from behind a gas mask.  “The two fellows beside you have been eating the beaniest burritos they could find, as well as an assortment of ghost peppers and cheese whiz right out of the bottle.  (Bacon-flavored, of course.)  And now it is time for them to relieve themselves…at your expense.  MWAHAHA!”  The two next to me begin ripping out plumes of stank that would kill a Rancor (Jedi fans holla!).  I’m pounding the stall door, screaming like a dude in one of those spaceship or submarine movies, you know the ones—where the unfortunate soul I’m speaking of happens to be trapped in a room that’s being deprived of oxygen, or flooded with water.  I see my eyebrows fall to the ground—burnt off by the sheer evil of these unctuous swamp fumes—and suddenly I’m gagging.  I fall back on my toilet, clutching at my throat, my face red, swollen, and slathered with fear-sweat.  In utter desperation, I yell “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!!!”  I hear a series of grunts as the two who are blocking me in are dispatched with well-placed strikes, and my stall door flies off its hinges.  Through the dim blear of my tear-flooded eyes, I see Chuck Norris in a level 4 hazmat suit (the “Moon Suit” as it’s sometimes called).  He lifts me up in a fireman’s carry and hauls me out of the bathroom.  By this point black spots have invaded 90% of my sight, but now it begins to clear.  “Where are we going?” I gasp as he sprints toward a 50th story glass expanse of window.  The heavy folds of his hazmat suit crinkle and pop as he picks up the pace.  “This place is compromised.  We need to get the hell out of here.”  He charges toward the window.  I say, “Wait, but we’re 50 stories above the—”  My protest is lost in a storm of breaking glass.  As we bust through the window into the clear sunny blue, he strikes a match with his moon-suited fingers (hard as the blue blazes, but this is Chuck Freakin’ Norris we’re talking about) and flicks it behind him.  It lights the trailing stank behind us on fire, and I see my office explode in a spectacular, slo-mo eighties style explosion.  I can’t resist; I copy every actions star from my childhood and let loose with an extended scream as I’m backlit by jet-liner sized flames.  Wind rushes past me and Chuck as we enter free-fall and I shout, “DO YOU HAVE A GRAPNEL OR SOMETHING???  WE’RE ABOUT TO BE TURNED INTO STREET PIZZA!!!”  He grins, grabs me under the shoulders, and shouts back, “GRAPNEL?  YOU’RE OUT OF TOUCH, KENT!”  Then he shouts, “BOOSTERS!”  The back of his moon-suit ripples and expands, and suddenly we’re slicing through the air and I’m grinning like a madman…’cos Chuck Freakin’ Norris is giving me a ride courtesy of a motha duckin’ state-of-the-art jetpack.

Ever been trapped in a bathroom stall between two dickheads who’ve managed to weaponize their buttholes?  Well there’s an answer to that:  Beast-mode Chuck Norris in a jetpack-equipped level 4 hazmat suit.  Palamedes publishing.  Check out their revolutionary Responsive Books software here:  Responsive Books.  Check out their poetry here:  Manhattan  They will soon offer Echo Volume 1 in paperback.  For now, 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


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