I’m at the local comic shop, perusing through some collections of graphic novels, when store owner and perpetual jerk Thurman Snerdbert (I like to repeatedly ask this guy his name, and when he tells me what it is, shake my head in mild disgust and mutter, “Jesus”) starts giving me the evil eye. I’m heading towards the bathroom when I feel cloth over my face, smell chloroform, and the world goes black. I wake up to a cold drip on the back of my neck. I’m bound to a chair. The unfinished basement room I’m in is lit by the harsh glow of a single naked bulb blazing brightly overhead. The smell of mold is pervasive, and there are no windows. Echoing plips sound throughout the room as water falls from leaks in the ceiling. A rough, unsanded plywood door bangs open to my left, and I see Thurman walk in. Over a primitive intercom, I hear a modulated voice, one of those artificially deep ones that makes everyone sound like a serial-killer/pervert. “Give him the Cheeto Fingers.” My heart rate jacks up a few notches as Thurman walks over to me. He begins rubbing his sausage-thick, orange-yellow-dusted phalanges across my cheeks and forehead, slathering them with warm nerd-slime. When he passes them under my nose it triggers my gag reflex, and I vomit for five minutes straight. After I finish, I spit bile from my mouth and bow forward, gasping and sobbing. Finally I manage, “Why would you do this to me?” The door opens and in walks Madonna. She screams, “You broke my heart, Kent! You and whatever foul magick you use to attract older woman! Now you will suffer!” I give her a blank look. “All I do is goof around, and do a few squats and hill sprints.” She tears up, and mascara runs down her face. “EXACTLY!” she wails, then stalks out of the room. The serial-killer voice speaks again over the intercom: “Cheeto Fingers for the next four hours. Keep going unless he experiences organ failure or septic shock.” My eyes widen in horror. I begin writhing in my chair, begging and gibbering. In the midst of the frenzy, my eReader falls out of my pocket and opens to Echo. Magic flash. I hear screaming and yelling out in the hall, as well as, “HE’S MINE, COW!” Thurman races out to see what’s going on. I hear him squeal, then the thud of what is presumably his body hitting the floor. Masked women enter my cell, dragging in an unconscious and hog-tied Madonna by the hair. They wake her with some smelling salts, and then take off their masks. I find myself staring at Megyn Kelly, Martha Stewart, and Halle Berry. Composed on the outside yet secretly-crazy-on-the-inside older ladies who I know will use me like the dumb Man Child piece o’ meat that I am. They all give me smiles, then start making out in front of me, slobbering all over each others’ lips and necks. Madonna’s screaming in jealous rage. They turn toward me, smile, and wink. As they untie me while voicing appreciative murmurs and purrs, I’m thinking: Sweet Baphomet! I’ll take Cheeto Fingers for days on end if this is my reward!
Turn the horror that is Cheeto Fingers into the hands down best fantasy of your life! Right now I’m in the middle of reworking Echo 1, trying to get all my noob mistakes out. If you refrain from buying it due to my amateurish writing style, a product of my first ventures into fiction, then I totally understand, and I’ll announce when I re-upload an updated version. If you buy it anyways, then many thanks! 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