Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

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

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11 thoughts on “Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

  1. So, uh, like I’m NOT the grammar Nazi, but in the midst of the rampant narcissistic sexism, that in the context of saleable game scripting is probably a hit with the emerging testosterone and Stridex demographic, even the best stream of consciousness types can find the tab key once in a while. Hell, make it random, you know, so as not to be a conformist. Read it out loud without breathing and every time you gulp air, hit the key. Mid sentence. Nothing is more unattractive than a giant block of self aggrandizing hooptedoodle. The occasional indent would make it much more approachable. Palatable is one of those as-you-like-it things, but think packaging. You could even do that WordPress writing as ASCII art, you know. Fill out the white parts like a Barbie or a giant phallus. But the brick approach? You’re better than that.

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      • Not a bad day or an internet sniper, just an observation. Tongue in cheek with that bit is almost Freudian. You’re better than all that run-on sophomoric bullshit is all I’m sayin’.

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      • On reflection i’ve added paragraph spacing. I first had no spacing due to trying to keep the ads compressed and completely visible without a fb or wp user having to click a link to see the entire thing, but I had to be honest with myself after your comment in that I’ve expanded the scope of my ads in flow and description, so I really don’t have an excuse to not have spacing. The content, however…that’s honestly whatever comes to my mind that day. I write a lot of these things and if they’re offensive, then apologies. But thanks for the input!

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      • To a certain extent. Therein lies the art of presentation, bc you can’t please everyone. There’s a certain point where you just do the best with what you have, and sleep soundly. I remember Chris Nolan was ready to walk out of Dark Knight Rises bc the execs assured him that the Riddler would be the best market choice for a villain. Anecdotally, it seems that a large number of people enjoy some of the more asinine parts of my stories, an estimation I assess through general feedback as well as direct messages. Once again, sorry if you’re offended, but I’ll maneuver as best I see fit in order to shape what the muse gives me. That’s really all I can do. Plus I do one of these every day on top of other writing work, so some of it will definitely offend. That’s something I accepted a while ago in order to strive for entertainment and quantity.

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      • I am not easily offended or a moral arbiter and marketing tules the day. Remember this paraphrase from Paul McCartney -he was asked about his set list one time, “Yesterday” and “Michelle” and how did he feel about still having to play them and did he have any advice for young songwriters. his reply was Don’t ever write or record a song

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      • Oops-write or record a song you aren’t willing to play every day the rest of your life. Regardless of intent, content is a lifelong affliction, even in the short term memory world of social media. Choose wisely, even in jest. Sexism in particular will bite you on the ass. What happens when you sell a million of something and land on Ellen? Does the depersonalization of soccer moms song you know they’ll flog you with stand up?

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      • That lies firmly in the realm of possibility, and is also within the realm of the logical fallacy known as a “slippery slope.” That being said, slippery slopes are sometimes a valid mechanism of thought, like in many scenarios with highly addictive drugs for instance. I believe the case you have outlined has no such empirically indicative evidence, so in the realm of fallacy it stays. When debating possibility, I’d say it’s impossible to qualify a “right” way to do things, as we both cannot know the future. Are my “provocative” posts offending or attracting viewers? Anecdotally, I can say there’s a handful of middle-aged women that enjoy my posts, and tell me so in comments or DMs, and they fully appreciate the comedic nature of them. If we were in a debate to try and argue the merits of our individual positions, I would say that both of our positions, unless we have knowledge of the future, would be impossible to validate to a satisfactory degree. The conclusion that seems apparent, however, is that we fall on different parts of the risk-tolerance spectrum. You seem to be on the part of the spectrum that looks at the way I advertise as an unwise risk, and that it is imperative to maintain rigorous standards for political correctness, while I see it as otherwise. Not a condemnation— I’m sure that if we were to examine our personal lives, we would both find evidence that supports why we tolerate risk in our own particular manners. Either way, I’m not sure of the context of that song quote, but it seems a bit silly from where I stand. I am going to drive my car, despite the fact that I risk crashing like those who die every day from driving. Why? Because empirically, with a wide spectrum of people, it has been shown to be a safe activity for the most part. Yours is the first intimation I’ve had that my ads might be sexist, and not even from the demographic that would most likely complain. THAT demographic actually seems to enjoy my jocularity, so given that, I’ll continue what I’m doing. I don’t think I’m being sexist at all, and as sexism is a subjective thing, I’ll wait for more consensus on whether I’m sexist or not before I give it consideration, and I’ll most likely wait for consensus from the demographic which would most likely be offended. The Ellen argument I’d say fits firmly in the camp of logical fallacy, which, unless given a reliable quantity of empirical evidence that would merit further consideration, I believe is invalid.

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      • The tell in the bullshit fog is “I’ll wait for consensus.” Wouldn’t want you to make up your own mind. So without what you see as political correctness, two dudes walking down the street call out your mother’s camel toe in the unbiquitous yoga pants worn by women of a certain age, ask you what you thought of it on the way out. What do you do? Pull out your blaster, or say “Thanks. I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Tasted kinda like chicken.” My point was selective objectification sexism is bad for everybody. But until the almost future Mrs. Buddha throws an expensive but incredibly healthy salad in your face and walks you for hawking soccer moms, wait for that consensus. Unless of course it’s all just a literary contrivance to sell books. Then it’s in there with why the coke bottle is shaped like Barbie, or vice versa, and culturally embedded. Don’t change a thing or make a difference with your talent. Wait for consensus. And who knows about Ellen? You have no faith in your work?

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      • Hmm…I apologize—it seems that my response to you has somehow gotten you revved up enough to denounce my position as bullshit and intimate that I’m imprisoned by consensus, as well as sarcastically imply that just because I like to be informed by personal experimentation combined with research when it comes to ambiguous subject matter, that it must follow that I’m unable to make up my own mind on said subject matter. I prefer to see us as having a difference in philosophical stances. When I write and publish my best effort at entertainment/insight to a wide audience, I humbly accept that I will inevitably offend some people, especially those that are looking to take offense. You seem to be an absolutist in this matter, and through your perspective, seem to have judged me as sexist. I disagree and I think it’s just a matter of us being on different places in the spectrum of perspective, and understandably, for both of our perspectives have been informed by a different set of circumstances. As far as “faith in my work,” I don’t link that to ending up on Ellen; in fact, “faith in my work” isn’t really a consideration for me one way or the other. I try and give my best effort every day, and if someone recognizes that, then that’s a cherry on top. Fame and riches are nice, but one only has to look at Robin Williams or other celebrities to know that it won’t bring fulfillment. I wish you the best in your endeavors, Phil! Sorry if you see me as offensive or ignorant! 🙂

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