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

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