“STRING HIM UP!”
The cry is met by a rousing cheer. Steely CLANK-CLANK-CLANKs reverberate through the air as my arms and leg stretch out at forty-five degree angles from the steel manacles that are affixed to my ankles and my wrists. When the tennis mom at the crank (each of its links are the size of a grown man’s forearm—it looks like something that might open a drawbridge in LOTR) stops rotating its handle, I’m ten feet in the air, my limbs stretched out like I’m about to be quartered.
The lead tennis mom unfurls a long, gilded scroll and begins reading from it:
“Hear ye hear ye! All ye who have gathered here today! We have assembled to bear witness to the death of one Kent Wayne by tennis ball barrage! This ‘writer’ ” and here she stops and sneers, eliciting a smatter of boos, “has deigned to insult the Great Kate Middleton, otherwise known as the Savior of Tennis Moms! From now until sunset, Kent Wayne shall remain suspended, and be subjected to the most vicious forehands and backhands that our arms can muster! And now, (pardon the pun) let JUSTICE BE SERVED!”
I can’t help but scream “AHCHRISTITHURTS!” as a glob of fuzzy green destruction rockets into my pendulous, unspeakably gorgeous nuts. More missiles follow, and I feel my spleen shift to the other end of my torso, as well as a shooting numbness streak down my legs when a ball thunders into my right buttock. I consider it a blessing when I’m whopped upside my head and everything seems distant and far away. Maybe I should go out with a Braveheart scream, but wait…fifty meters away, on top of that four-story apartment building…
My eyes open wide. It’s Bitefighter.
I see him nuzzle open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash.
Suddenly I’m teleported into a state-of-the-art, still-in-dev-over-at-Area-51-because-it’s-equipped-with-Gray-derived-techno-organics helicopter gunship that hovers a dozen yards above the gathering of rabid tennis moms. As it nixes its stealth settings, heavy rotor wash envelops the square, and tennis moms squint and raise their arms to their faces as their hair is blown into wild, flickering messes. I look toward the cockpit and I see Bitefighter in the pilot’s seat. He’s wearing a pilot’s headset and doggy ray bans. He raises a tiny forepaw and gives me a thumbs-up.
I turn away and realize I’m sitting in a gunner’s pod at the rear of the chopper. Mounted on the steel-plated deck is an old-school gatling gun with one of those crank-handles you might see in a wild west movie. Something’s different about it though—its barrels are way bigger in diameter than a standard gun’s.
I grab the crank, then turn my head over my shoulder to look at Bitefighter again.
“I’M READY!” I yell over the helo’s blades.
He gives me another thumbs-up and starts rotating the chopper. I start cranking the handle of the gun, but instead of bullets, its six-barrel cluster begins spitting out tennis balls. Tennis moms begin screaming, falling in handfuls as I rain a storm of fuzzy green destruction down on their Louis Vuitton purses, their $500 boobie shirts, and through the windows of their double-parked SUVs.
I see a few of them band together, coordinating under the leadership of the head tennis mom, lobbing up balls in the air and then launching them at the chopper with vicious serves from Yonexes, Wilsons, and Prince rackets. The balls bounce harmlessly off the chopper’s hull and I level the tennis-ball-gatling at them.
Before I fire, I turn to Bitefighter and yell, “PLAY SHOOT TO THRILL!”
The magic, electric strains of AC/DC blast out from the chopper’s speakers, and I begin nodding along, a mile-wide grin spreading across my face.
“SHOOT TO THRILL—”
I resume firing: pwockpwockpwockpwock!
“PLAY TO KILL! TOO MANY WOMEN WITH TOO MANY PILLS!”
“SHOOT TO THRILL—“
“PLAY TO KILL! I GOT MY GUN AT THE READY GONNA FIRE AT WILL!”
Classic rock and the budda-budda-budda of my tennis-gatling merge together with the enraged shrieks of tennis moms. Bitefighter tries singing along, but the best he can manage is: “Aroo Aroo! Roof roof aroo! Roof roof aroo roof ROOF roof aroo!
Hey, he’s a 10 lb. terrier—cut him some slack.
Once the tennis moms have all taken flight in their now busted up fleet of SUVs, I race up to Bitefighter and ask, “Before they ambushed me and strung me up, what were we trying to do?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Arf bark mcarfaroo.”
I slap my forehead with my palm and exclaim, “Oh yeah! Duh! Let’s get busy building that robot velociraptor!”
The adventures of Man Child Kent Wayne and Bitefighter continue!
Perhaps you too, have had a Human Moment and criticized the possible reptoid/insectoid hybrid that goes by the name of Kate Middleton and invoked the ire of a battalion of tennis moms. Never fear! Echo can save you! 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 #kindle #kindleunlimited