I’m whizzing through Golden Gate Park, my 10 lb. terrier and loyal buddy Bitefighter seated firmly in my backpack. He and I are enjoying that finest of luxuries: the crisp rush of wind against our faces, paired with a welcoming bask of sun, a halcyon lattice of light that slips through the trees and warms our skin. Suddenly I hear: “Check your male privilege!” shouted at me from the left. The delivery is a little irritating but okay—I can see where my gender gives me an unfair advantage in a variety of contexts, and why it’s the reason behind a good degree of societal anger. Then I hear: “Check your body-shaming privilege!” I find this a bit ridiculous; it’s not like I’m wearing a tank top or a tight shirt or anything. The next one boggles my mind: “Check your penile endowment privilege!” I look down and see that my shorts have scrunched up around my hog. I’m no Kieran Lee, but I’m confident in stating that I can wow the average joe. Fed up with checking every aspect of myself—I, who am no stranger to eating shit by the plateful—I yell back, “Burn in hell, acorn-dick! That’s right; you heard me: Your micro phallus is all head and no neck!” I’m grinning to myself as I speed forward, when suddenly, I’m conscious of the whir of dozens of wheels behind me. I look back and I see what looks like a full peloton of bikers, all Social Justice Warriors with grim hate affixed to their faces. Bitefighter lets out an anxious “Rowf!” and I reply, “I know buddy; I’m going as fast as I can!” I stand up and start sprinting on my bike. I yell to Bitefighter: “CAN YOU ADD SOME THRUST?” I sense Bitefighter curling his tiny body into a ball, and over the noise of the rushing wind, I hear: beeeeooooorRRRRRPHHBHBHBHTTT!!! as he farts as hard as he can. It acts like a nitro boost and simultaneously clouds the path behind us. I hear yells of outrage erupt from my pursuers, but when I look over my shoulder, I see that none of them have fallen out. Shitballs. Only one option left: I throw my head back and scream, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!!!” Magic flash. Suddenly I have an X-Wing pilot’s helmet on my head. My earpiece buzzes. “All wings report in.” “Red 10 standing by.” “Red 7, standing by.” “Red 6, standing by.” “Red 9, standing by.” “Red 2 standing by.” And wait for it…WAIT for it…”Red 5 standing by.” YEAAAAHHHH!!! (for those of you who don’t know, that’s Luke motha duckin’ Skywalker!). “Lock S-foils in attack position.” The trails darken and I look behind me. The SJWs are gibbering like panicked lemurs, pointing at Red Squadron as they buzz in low. Suddenly, the pack of malicious biker-SJWs begins exploding in chaos as turbolasers lance down from above. I see Acorn-dick trying to sprint away but Red 5 streaks in low and blows his bike out from under him, sending a mildly toasted SJW—hair once technicolor but now burnt black—cartwheeling through the air, wailing for mommy, unicorns and cotton candy. I borrow a line from Han and yell, “Great shot kid, that was one in a million!” Luke gives me a casual salute and a grin, then peels off with the rest of Red Squadron. I imagine their next stop is Groola’s Palace for shots of Corellian Whiskey.
Have you said the wrong thing in a city where being outraged has become the leisure activity of choice? Never fear, Red Squadron’s got your back! 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