Night has fallen over humanity. Remember that epidemic of open letters that seemed to die down after a year or two? The world breathed a collective sigh of relief when the righteous tide of “lemme tell you how it is and you shut up ‘cos I don’t want dialogue; I just want to spew mind-vomit” died down. But now, those open letter enthusiasts have taken over the world and placed all writers in one of their internment camps. They came for me while I was on the pooper, re-reading Dark Knight Returns. You NEVER do that to a Batman devotee! Goddamn Philistines! Anyways, now I’m shackled to an unfinished cement wall, watched by a guard, and supervised by a nerd. A nerd who forces me to use my writing skills to write OPEN LETTERS. I grit my teeth as the supervisor looks over my shoulder and says, “It’s not hoity-toity enough. Begin a few more sentences with ‘I, for one….’ ” I can feel the veins in my eyeballs pulse with rage, and for the thousandth time, send out a futile prayer asking the Man in the Sky to send me an errant airstrike that lands directly on my face. But then, as I see my supervisor yukking it up with one of his peers, I see an eReader sticking out from his pocket. Do I dare? I thought-experiment the next few decades, and I don’t like what I see. I have no wish to toil away in this hovel producing the equivalent of literary herpes, all the while seeing my once-mighty genitalia shrivel into a slug-like appendage that is the approximate size and shape of an acorn, only smaller by a magnitude of 10^347th power. The prospect sends a shiver of fury and anger coiling up my spine, and I slam my head against my desk. I see stars—the first ones I can remember since I was locked in this hellhole. As the supervisor comes running up, yelling what the hell is wrong with you, I lunge out of my chair, grab his eReader, and open it to Echo. Magic flash. Shaft, Chuck Norris, Charles Bronson, and every other cartoonishly hyper-masculine representation of society breaks through the rock wall of my dungeon cell, pauses in mid-air—like some cheesy 70s TV show opener—and then begins mowing through guards with funny shit we used to think was the epitome of hand to hand combat: Judo chops, crosses with giant wind-ups, as well as all-american haymakers. I’m cheering them on, but then they start tearing into nerds like the Walking Dead, maowing down on long strings of blood-drenched organs. What the hell!!!!! I start screaming in horror, afraid they’re going to do the same to me. Mr. T stops eating for a second, and looks me in the eye. He says, “The life force of meatheads must be refreshed from time to time with the innards of nerds.” I manage to grab a key to my shackles off a guard’s corpse, and high-tail it out of there.
From my story—which is clearly and unequivocally based on Science—you can see that open letters, if unchecked, invite the rise of fascist regimes, as well as the prevalence of cannibalism among lovably outdated action heroes. 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