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

I’m watching the teeb (TV in Man Child speak) getting in some sweet sweet Adventure Time.  Suddenly Jake and Finn disappear, only to be replaced by a breaking news report:  Multiple cities have been replaced by mysterious vortexes of swirling light.  As an aerial camera view pans over what used to be New York, I hear a reporter saying:  “—just happened hours ago.  Congress is now calling for the emergency formation of a new agency which will be titled the Federal Bureau of Physics, headed by none other than—” my brow wrinkles in puzzlement, and I click to another news channel and see a four-way split-screen of tsunamis that are hundreds of feet high.  This time the reporter is saying:  “—ocean has hit been hit by multiple meteors in the last two hours.  While experts say that no major metropolitan areas are in need of evacuation, they also say that it’s only a matter of time before—”  before I can make anything of this, my phone rings.  I pick it up and I hear a gravelly voice whisper, “This is Elias Bendix.  Director of the Imajica council and ranking member of the Illuminati.”  Before I can throw out a WTF he says, “Yeah I know you’ve never heard of me, but I’m the man behind the man behind the scenes.  Right now the country needs you, son.  The WORLD needs you.”  I glance toward the television again, and see that now it’s focusing on a blazing range of energy that’s enveloped the Tunguska.  The caption on the bottom of the screen reads, ” ‘QUANTUM STORM’ MATERIALIZES IN RUSSIA.”  I hear a knock on the door, and Bendix says, “Answer it.”  I get up and pull the door open.  A super-proper WASPy looking guy in a black suit and tie is standing there, with a fully kitted out spec-ops 4-man personal security detail scanning the rest of the San Francisco suburb that I currently live in.  Bendix says, “Go with these men.”  At this point my mind is still reeling.  I don’t know what to think or do.  I decide to follow and instructions and march off with Suit Guy toward a sleek mix of a chopper and a UFO that’s parked in the streets.  One of my neighbors—a lifelong corporate drone named Herb—yells at me, “I hope they send you to Gitmo, Kent!  You were always a nonconformist prick!  I hope they force you to eat sriracha-slathered ghost peppers through those butt-feeding tubes they got down there!”  I turn to Herb and yell back, “You know that unscooped dog poop in your yard?  That was my terrier, Herb!  Oh yeah—and the last few months I’ve been waking up at 2 am so I can squeeze my OWN dook onto your beloved topsoil!  Yeah, you’ve been handling my recycled food for weeks, dick!  Also, I leave the window to my shower open so your wife can watch me and flick her bean!  Ask her about it, you acorn-dicked office-bot!”  Herb’s face blanks, his lower lip trembles, and he runs back into his house before he starts crying.  One of the spec-ops guys offers me knuckles and I bump fists with him.  Another one laughs and says, “Respect.”  As we board the chopper/UFO, Suit Guy shouts over the rising scream of turbines:  “WE NEED TO GET YOU TO THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER!  PROFESSOR HAWKING HAS WORKED OUT A POSSIBLE FIX TO WHAT’S GOING ON RIGHT NOW; IT INVOLVES YOU AND A STILL-EXPERIMENTAL AMPLIFICATION OF THE COLLIDER’S DIPOLE MAGNETS!”  I yell back, “WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?”  Suit guy smiles wryly as our craft takes off and cuts through the sky.  “I HAVE NO IDEA!”  I’m about to nod and settle in for the ride, when suddenly the chopper rocks violently for three or four seconds, though my hyperstimulated mind makes it seem like three or four hours.  Everyone on board immediately grabs hold of one of the dozen safety rungs hanging down from the ceiling.  The shaking stops, and I see Suit Guy tapping furiously at a modded out iPad that’s been “ruggedized,” as they say in the military.  His face goes slack with horror, and I see his lips form into the unmistakable shape for the word “No.”  He looks up at me and shouts, “WE’RE UNDER EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL ATTACK!  SOME KIND OF CROSS-BETWEEN LIZARD PEOPLE AND GIANT SPIDERS!  BEIJING’S GONE!  SO IS MADRID AND JOHANNESBURG!  WASHINGTON HAS ENACTED SIEGE PROTOCOLS!”  He taps at the iPad again and his shoulders slump.  Instead of yelling, he simply shows me the screen, and I see a text from someone I don’t know saying, “Earth-killer asteroid is about to impact.  Unless you can get Wayne here in under five minutes, all is lost.”  Suit Guy starts to weep into his hands, and the spec-ops guys all begin fiddling with their headset comms and asking to be patched in to their loved ones.  My eyes dart left, then right.  Only one option left.  I throw my head back and yell, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!!!”  Magic flash.  I’m suddenly teleported into the expansive, open-aired floor space of one of the Collider’s antechambers.  Lab-coated techs are looking at me in shock.  Hawking motors up to me, but his assistant—a bespectacled hot soccer mom who I’d normally hit on if the world wasn’t crumbling—reaches me first.  “Kent!” she exclaims breathlessly.  “We need you in the accelerator!  NOW!”  I ask:  “But won’t I die?”  She shakes her head.  “No—the immense amount of zero-point novelty and wonder in your…rhhhmm…genitalia will combine with the Collider’s processes to offset the reality distortion currently taking place.  Every scenario we’ve mapped out predicts that you’ll live.”  She pushes her glasses nervously up her nose and says, “That’s what our equations tell us, anyway.”  I don’t give it a second’s thought:  “I’ll do it.”  Because the whole world is about to collapse anyway, right?  We rush off to the Collider.  I’m sealed in, and they begin spinning up their magnets.  A warm iridescent glow blazes off my loins, and the outline of my piece shines through my jeans as if it was a cross between Excalibur, Anduril, and Skywalker’s lightsaber.  Before the comms earbud they’ve stuck onto me disintegrates, I hear a scientist scream, “It’s working!  It’s working!  I can’t believe that—” and then I vanish, only to find myself staring at the magical ranges of the Enchanted Booty Forest.  Hawking’s assistant said I’d live; I just thought it would be on Earth.  But hey, this is WAAAAY better.  I smile and traipse into an aetheric wonderland of beautiful backsides.  Let no booty go unappreciated!

When the world is crumbling around you and the only solution to it is your marvelous, reality-bending genitals, make sure you can get them where they need to be—post haste.  Palamedes publishing.  Check out their revolutionary Responsive Books software here:  Responsive Books.  Check out their poetry here:  Manhattan They are currently assisting me with the process of getting Echo Volumes 1 & 2 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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