I’m at a local meditation class, sliding back into my body after experiencing a whirlwind astral tour in which I zoomed around time and space and made sweet sweet love to the eight-armed goddess of all Soccer Moms (think her name was Brittney or Amber or one of those names that could either belong to a chic suburbia mom or the highest-tipped stripper at your local gentleman’s club) in her transdimensional SUV, a behemoth of a vehicle that somehow always manages to take up two parking spaces. Yeah, when it comes to out of body travel, Kent Wayne knows what’s up. 😉 Anyways, as I re-enter my flesh-form, I hear the meditation instructor blathering on about “unicorn energy,” which I know is BS ‘cos I’ve spent decades exploring the reaches of Inner Space; there’s no such thing as “unicorn energy.” I can’t help but roll my eyes and I hear her clear her throat. “a-HEM. Kent, there’s nothing constructive about sarcasm. Unicorn energy is a serious thing; there is NOTHING funny about it.” I reply: “Sorry lady, you’re full of poop. I’ve been to the Ninth Ring, Imajica, and I spent an entire summer lazing around in the Elysian Fields. No such thing as unicorn energy.” The instructor narrows her eyes, turns to the other students, and hisses, “Leave us.” She says this just like Palpatine, and a band of shadow falls across her eyes, causing a chill to go up my spine. The other students hurry out and I stare at her, not quite frightened, but definitely unsettled. Candice slowly reaches to the edge of her face with her right hand, grins like the Joker, and begins peeling away her skin. I buck backwards and tip my seat over, simultaneously screaming, “WHAT THE DARK KNIGHT???” Under Candice’s flimsy epidermis lies another face: one with a mustache, an afro….IT’S BOB FREAKIN’ ROSS! The master of placidness throws back his head and laughs demonically. The skin of his fingers begin splaying and ripping apart in bloody ribbons and two gore-drenched horns—exactly like you might imagine on a unicorn—burst out from the mess of his hands, which are now tattered strips of tissue that hang from his wrists. He turns to me, eyes flaring with pure evil, and says, “Unicorn energy, bitch. AHAHAHAHA!” Sweet Krypton! I’ve laid low a few dark lords but I can see from Mr. Ross’s hellish miasma that he outmatches me by at least a +20 modifier to THAC0 and is probably several orders of magnitude above me on saving throws. I yell, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!” Magic flash. Suddenly the wall to the meditation studio blows inward, and I glimpse the enormous fender of my soccer mom goddess’s bigass SUV hit Bob square in the back and partially run him over. He’s now pinned underneath the eight-foot high wheel of this giant road hog, snarling and waving his horn-hands at me, screaming about how he’ll feast on my guts. My soccer mom lover gets out, slams the door, and begins savagely beating the Bob-demon, shrieking that Kent Wayne is hers, goddammit, and that Bob Fucking Ross had best stick to creeping people out with his grandma-pleasing paintings. After several minutes of this, the Bob-thing finally stops moving. My soccer mom savior straightens up, breathing heavily, blood spattered on her face like crimson war paint. She gets back in her car, guns the engine, smiles at me, then mimes the “call me” gesture. Her car vanishes into a vortex of light, and I can’t help but think that maybe I should leave off the interdimensional travel for a bit.
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. 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 Vol.1 here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle