I’ve just been designated Lactobacillus commander of the entire Western Stomach Region of Host Tiffany Johnson. We proud probiotics our tasked with maintaining the gut health of wise and benevolent Host Tiffany. I face subcommander Glorp, my long time friend, and say, “Okay, order of the day is the same as always. Get the guys out there, break down the carbs first, then fats. I’ve noticed that we’ve been wasting valuable micronutrients lately, so crack some whips if you have to. Our job is not to sit on our asses and subdivide; remind the boys that Excrement, Blood, Muscles, and damn near everyone else is depending on us to supply them with quality energy. We may not be the hotshots up in Lungs, but our work is still pretty frickin’ important. More than that, Tiffany depends on us, got it?” Glorp nods. “Also, our boys in Pheromones sent some runners down the Nerve Ways. They’ve been saying that Tiffany may be about to engage in mating rituals with another host. Be ready for some spit-borne strangers. Pat them down, interview them, and if they’re incompatible with our setup, shoot em over to Excrement. Okay, get to your position and issue orders.” Glorp spins on one of his tube-ends and begins barking instructions. I smile to myself. Another fine day in the service of Host Tiffany. Suddenly alarms start going off. Before I can scream WTF Glorp comes running back to me. “Boss! Mating rituals have engaged. We’re about to—” And then I hear from one of the guard microbes: “TAKE COVER! SPERM’S ON IT’S WAY!!!” A wash of white death comes hurtling through the esophagus. Suddenly, all of my troops—myself included—are locked in mortal combat with a horde of wriggling, toxic bastards. They’re not just fighting us; they’re fighting each other, gnawing on each others’ heads and tails, these crazy fuckers. I point the front end of my tube-body toward ‘em and scream, “FOR HOST TIFFANY! KILL THESE WHORES! RAAAAAAHHH!!!!!” I wriggle toward the nearest Squirmer (that’s what we call these faithless heathens) and lock on to his tail. We tumble around in plasm as we both try to devour each other. Finally, I manage to rip his head off. Prancing Prokaryotes, I’m already exhausted. I look around, and see that every one of my troops is in dire straits. I hear one of my guys yell, “MORE SPERM IS COMING! GET READY!!!” Mitochondria preserve us…there’s no way we can win this. I reach out with my psyche, and somehow power through to a future incarnation where I will not just be a Lacto Commander, but a full grown Host named Kent Wayne. This host will write something called a “book” called…I utter the word, “Echo.” Magic flash. Suddenly all of my troops are fitted with mechanized suits, each with fully enhanced, weaponized flagella and state-of-the-art plasm-propulsion systems. They start blasting away with acid launchers, dissolving sperm into bits of fragmented DNA. In a matter of seconds, we lay waste to two stinky man-loads, a task that would typically take us weeks. Host Tiffany is safe once again! I raise my front tube-end and scream, “ALL HAIL HOST TIFFANY!” My troops yell back, “ALL HAIL THE HOST!” and I smile in response. Damn fine day to count myself among Tiffany’s Lacto!
It’s pretty unlikely, but it’s possible that you too may one day incarnate as a lactobacillus, and you will have to protect your host from some grody-ass man-loads. 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