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

For the last few months, my fifteen-year old mattress has been growing odd, basketball-sized lumps within it.  And in the last two weeks, I swear these lumps have been moving, and sometimes whispering what I imagine to be ancient, arcane-sounding words such as:  “Zuuuullll.”  No matter—I’m a true Man Child, and I only throw out a mattress when the CDC busts in with a level 4 hazmat-suited Tier 1 spec-ops team and forces me to do so at gunpoint.  Right now I’m enjoying myself on this rippling ecosystem that used to be mostly composed of stuffing but is now made of microbes, eating some of that amazing California dank and watching Stephen Hawking speak about how virtual particles lead to black hole emissions.  Suddenly, my mattress groans and shakes.  I jump off the thing in fright, skittering up against the wall as I watch it sprout thousands of chitin-covered legs, much like you would see on a giant millipede.  Evil, grody-looking faces begin bursting out from the top of my mattress.  One of them (it looks like Garey Busey, but I’ll just call it Lead-Face), rasps at me, “We’re tired of you bringing beautiful soccer moms in here, Kent.  We’re tired of hearing you writhe and moan and sling your disgusting fluids every which way.  You and your gorgeous phallus allow these women to forget about ME!  I don’t even have sheets on me, and I’ve grown hundreds of different kinds of mold and what you could possibly consider a new species of mammal within my rectangular torso!  What do you think they would say if they knew you were torturing me every night just by virtue of your obtuse, Man Child negligence???”  Of course, as a true Man Child, my mind remains fixed on the compliment to my junk.  I say, “You think I have a gorgeous phallus?”  Lead-Face screams in rage, and begins racing toward me, its tiny feet sounding out thousands of heart-stopping clicks against the hardwood floor.  I tuck my head into my elbow and spear through my window, collapsing into a roll as shattered glass rains down around me.  My mattress squeezes through the aperture, plops onto the ground, and begins chasing me through the San Francisco suburbs.  I look behind me, my eyes wide, my heart beating a mile a minute.  NO.  FREAKIN.  WAY!  It’s catching up to me!  Lead-Face is grinning in savage triumph as he steadily eats the gap between us.  Shitballs.  Only one option left.  I throw my head back and scream, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!!!”  A swirling vortex of multihued light appears before me, and I run right into it.  Right into…Chuck Norris’s garage gym??  I see Lone Wolf Mcquade hopping in place, throwing roundhouse kicks and grunting, “Three hundred thousand four hundred and eighty EIGHT, three hundred thousand four hundred and eighty NINE…”  when my mattress bursts in behind me, screaming in an infernal wail that tightens my sphincter into a tiny, pinprick speck.  Chuck takes one look at it, and—KIIIIII—throws a roundhouse.  An umbra of eldritch energy streams off his instep.  He kicks Lead-Face square in the jaw, and suddenly the mattress bursts apart, exploding in a rain of gore and goo, coating the inside of the garage in Gross.  I’m breathing heavily, and Chuck puts his hands on his waist, right above the black belt (now gray from years of training) and clucks his tongue.  “Jesus Kent.  Can’t you just change your mattress before it grows heads and legs and tries to kill you?”

None of you want to admit it, but I’m not the only negligent mattress owner out there.  Chances are you might be one of them.  Don’t get caught unawares when your beloved snooze-pad turns against you in a fit of demonic rage.  Palamedes Publishing.  Check out their poetry here:  Machu Picchu Me  They are 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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