I turn the key to my apartment door, whistling the score from La La Land (man, what a great movie! I hate musicals and romcoms, but I’m man enough to admit there’s a few out there that tug at the heart strings). As I enter my apartment, something feels off. The shadows seem longer, and there is a distinct smell of sulfur and brimstone hanging in the air. I pad cautiously forward and I hear my loyal buddy and 10 lb. terrier extraordinaire Bitefighter let out a warning “Rowf!” I know that rowf—Bitefighter and I agreed upon it in case one of us is being held hostage (well maybe I just made that up, but I like to think that he understands what I say). Circled in my small living area are my exes. The lead one is holding my one and only food bowl, which I have helpfully labeled “FOODE” on its side in black marker. (I know: Writers should learn how to spell but whatever). She says, “You truly HAVE devolved into a Man Child, Kent. Living with your mustachioed rat-creature, eating with one set of utensils…what a sad, sad state of affairs.” I reply with quiet vehemence: “I write now. I’ve written three sci fi novels.” She mocks me with an affected “Oooo, impressive. I suppose the hundreds of ads you’ve written mocking accountants’ penis size is part of your repertoire of fine literature. But now it’s time to take that right away from you, Kent.” She slowly unsheathes a katana, and that sliding rasp of metal on scabbard sends a chill down my spine. “Because we’re going to preserve the ONLY part of you worth saving….by castrating you.” They charge me with a variety of bladed weapons, and my hands fly instinctively over my crotch as I duck a series of lightning-fast swings and slashes. Cut my head off but not my…head, know wu’m saying? I’m one slice away from having to wear a stunt-cock for the rest of my life. I fish in my pocket for my eReader and open it to Echo. Magic flash. The door to my bathroom swings open, flooding my apartment with Eau de Kent. The Exes freeze cartoonishly in place, swords paused in mid-swing. Their eyes roll back in their skulls, and they collapse to the ground, seizing and foaming at the mouth. Bitefighter raises a tiny forepaw up, and I give him a tiny high five. Nobody can withstand the concentrated bathroom musk of your favorite author (and perennial Man Child) Kent Wayne.
There are, in fact, benefits to living like a Man Child. A weapon of mass destruction in the form of an unkempt bathroom, though rarely useful, is one of them. 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