My head and hands are in stockades, rattling in their restraints as I get paraded down Market Street. The year is 2043, and after a long, vicious conflict between the Swiftettes and the Men of Metal (that’s the camp I fall into; big surprise—I know), the Resistance has been scattered into ragged pockets of dogged rebel fighters. The Swiftettes have achieved dominance through the use of destructive innovations such as orbital fire platforms and mounted Air Police. Sad to say, but much of North America has been transformed into a desolate landscape lit by the harsh glow of drone spotlights. Rotten fruit and vegetables are splatting my face and body as the stockade trundles onward. Shrill screams assault my ears; they come from Swiftettes demanding my head on a platter, as well as my genitals in a mold for their future pleasure (gotta say, that one’s a bit flattering). When we finally arrive at Union Square, I’m wheeled into the middle, where a pneumatic platform hisses out gas and begins raising me and my executioner skyward so that all may see. She’s dressed in some evil dominatrix getup which is also a bit hot (all spikes and shiny black, that kinda shit), and unrolls a long scroll with gilded edges, as if she was a town crier from back in the olden days. She clears her throat and the crowd quiets. “Hear ye, hear ye! All who have gathered! Know that on this day, we put an end to the one known as ‘Kent Wayne!’ One who makes merciless fun of holy Swiftette sites and concepts such as the Container Store, diamond rings, pouty looks, and Happily Ever After!” She takes a moment to look away from her scroll, spit on my face, then hiss, “Filth! Abomination! Unholy crawler!” She turns to the crowd and screams, “Boo this man!” And boy do they: “BOOO!!! BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” She rolls up the scroll and turns to me. “Anything to say, you lowly fuck-worm?” I spot my sidekick, best bud, and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire Bitefighter a roof away, opening an eReader to Echo. Magic flash. I look at my executioner, smile, then begin singing: “My last. Request. I-is…Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset baaabe…” She interrupts me with a laugh. “You think invoking holy scripture will save you, heathen? You are sorely mistaken.” She draws a long, wicked blade from the scabbard at her hip, but right then, my words are taken up by another voice. Slightly more weathered than I remember, but still angelic: “Red lips and rosy cheeks, say you’ll see me a-gain even if it’s just in your wiiiiiildest dreams ah-ah aaahhhh…..” Oh my god. I feel a twitch in my loins as my body responds to well-aged hotness (come on; you all know that your favorite author and perennial Man Child Kent Wayne is always down for a sordid soccer mom romp). The one and only Taylor Swift—who nobody has seen since the Insectoid Offensive ten years ago, and now looks to have transformed into a super hot soccer mom—uses both her hands to lift a voluminous hood away from her eyes and step out from the crowd. My executioner lets her sword drop to her side and stammers, “Milady, we haven’t heard from you in decades…where have you…” Taylor’s eyes flash red and she extends her right arm toward the executioner, Force-choking her. The woman’s feet lift off the ground as she clutches at her neck. “kkkkk….KKKKK. P-p-please milady…” Taylor says, “This beautiful slab of man-meat is MINE, trollop.” She turns to the crowd, arm still extended in a Force-choke. “MINE!” she shrieks, then clenches her fingers, causing the executioner to explode into a shower of gore and innards. While the crowd screams in horror, Taylor’s face stays blank and merciless as red droplets dot her face. She curtly gestures to two of the guards. “Release this dirty whore. I want him set aside for my personal deviancies.” The guards hurriedly obey. As I rub my neck and wrists, Taylor uses her black-magic skills to blur to my side and scoop me up like I was a bride on a wedding night. She levitates off the deck and into the sky, where she takes me to her hidden fortress on the dark side of the moon, and takes full advantage of my filthy Man Child body.
I’ve gotta say that I have no problem flipping the script on traditional gender roles, especially if I’m gonna be ravaged by a Sith-lord soccer mom version of Taylor Swift. 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
Kent Wayne 
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