Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

“SOOOOooooo Kent…did you know that in addition to being a Food Network star and an American icon, I’m also a trained masseuse and chiropractor?  I just learned MAT—Muscle Activation Technique.  Want me to show you?”  Martha’s eyes gleam and her lips widen in a smug grin.

I rub the back of my neck and laugh awkwardly.  “Sure thing, Ms. Stewart.  Ah…you need me to lie down or something?”

She pats the massage table.  “Right here.  Take off your clothes and get on your back.”

“Um, okay.”

I stare at her and she stares at me.

Finally, I ask, “Shouldn’t you leave the room?”

She waves a dismissive hand and scoffs.  “Come ON Kent—you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.  Stop being a child.”

I stare at her for another long moment before I mutter, “Okay,” and begin taking off my shirt.  I take off my shoes and let my pants drop.  Even though I have underwear on I’m kinda nervous, so I hunch over and cover my junk with both hands as I approach the table.  She stiff-arms me in the chest.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I shoot a panicked look at her.  “Um…getting on the table like you asked?”

She clucks her tongue.  “Kent Kent KENT…I told you to take your clothes off.  That means ALL your clothes.”

I lock eyes with her, waiting for her to tell me she’s joking.  When she doesn’t, my mind flashes to all the ways she could make me suffer:  Martha Stewart has mastered multiple dark arts of the magickal persuasion, is an accomplished hand-to-hand combatant (only exacerbated by her stay in the Big House where she decapitated an inmate with a sharpened toothbrush handle), and is also the Senior Chairwoman of the Illuminati, which gives her reign over 80% of Earth’s governments and businesses.  The bottom line is that I want to keep my family safe, I want to live past today, and I’d like my balls to remain attached to my body (and not served up to her on a silver platter by some impeccably dressed dude named Jarvis or Duckworth or Hargreaves or whatever the fuck).

I take off my undies and get on the table.

“Can I have a towel?”  I try not to keep the quiver out of my voice.

She oils up her hands, gives me a brief look of disgust, then says, “Fine,” and tosses me a hand towel.  If I position it just right, it covers about 70% of my enormous genitalia.  (Better than nothing, I guess).

She starts massaging me and explains what Muscle Activation Technique is.  She puts a weight in my extended left arm that causes it to shake and tremble from the strain.  “Look, if I press a specific sequence of trigger points—”  her fingers dig into a series of spots across my right shoulder “—it makes your left arm stronger, see?”  Suddenly the strain vanishes, and my left arm is easily able to support the weight. 

My brow wrinkles in astonishment.  “That’s amazing!”

She lets me drop the weight and nods with a knowing smile, continuing to press spots all across my body and restoring full function to each of my flexion and extension muscles.   Then it gets weird.

“And if I press these three spots on your abdomen—” she digs her fingers down the center of my abs, “—then your penis flops right into my hand!  Look at that!”  She darts her hand under the hand towel and grabs my junk, giving it a firm wag.

Mindful of her ability to ruin my life and/or make me a cripple, I say, “Ah, you didn’t actually do anything there, Martha; you just reached under my towel and groped me.”

“Pish posh,” she flaps a hand at me and laughs.  “You’re so funny, Kent.”

“I wasn’t making a—”

“Anyway,” she squeezes down and I jerk in discomfort, trying not to yelp, “This is mine now, understand?  MINE.”

I hiss through my teeth and say, “Martha, I’ll offer you the same Man Whore rates I do to the rest of my clientele.  There’s no need to go through all this—”

“Oh you misunderstand, my well-endowed writer.”  A wicked gleam comes into her eye.  “I’m KEEPING this.”

She’s right—I DON’T understand.  I give her a puzzled look.

Her free hand snaps down, then back up.  When my eyes refocus on her blurringly fast fingers, I see that she’s produced a wicked-looking scalpel. 

WHAT THE HELL!  I push her away and scrabble off the massage table.  I press my back against the wall, both hands extended toward her, palms out in a “halt” gesture.

“Whoa WHOA, Martha!  Let’s think about this!  There’s no need to—”

She skitters from side to side in a Gollum-like crouch, scalpel held in a knife-fighter’s grip.  “That womb-hammer is MINE, Kent!  I’ve never seen anything like it!  It’ll overtake the entire market for molded male genitalia in a single night!”

“Okay but that doesn’t mean you have to cut it off!  There are other ways to—”

“MINE!”  Her eyes go red with rage and she lunges at me.

I spin sideways and her arm punches through dry wall.  I duck as she retracts it and takes a vicious swing at me, then she reverses her grip and tries to catch me with a slicing backhand.  The scalpel thuds into a wall stud.  She screams in frustration as she tries to retract it, but it’s stuck fast.

While she’s jerking at its handle, I double-leg shoot and take her to the ground.  I instantly curse myself for a fool as she shows her mastery of martial arts by trapping my elbow with both hands and forcing my upper body down, then hooking my feet with hers and bucking her hips.  Our positions reverse so that she’s now on top.  Two ruthless shifts of her body and she’s passes my guard and mounts my chest.

She begins slapping me across the face, laughing maniacally like Christopher Nolan’s version of the Joker.  Each blow is hard enough to cause my sight to go fuzzy and my hearing to fade into a monotone ring.

“MINE MINE MINE MINE!” she screams while slapping the fuck out of me.

Shit this is it…I’m sorry for those three times I didn’t replace the toilet paper roll…I’m sorry for those times I took the last slice of pizza when no one was looking…I’m sorry for those time I boobytrapped my brother’s doorknob by smearing bodily fluids onto it…

And then I see it:  my eReader poking out of my pants.

I dart my hand over to it and open it to Echo.  Magic flash.

Two purple-gloved hands reach around Martha’s chin and break her neck with a dry, resolute SNAP.

“MINE, bitch.”

As Martha’s lifeless face sags onto my shoulder, I see my childhood crush Jessica Rabbit looming behind her.  I grab her extended hand and she helps me to my feet.

“Come on Kent—it won’t be long before her Blackwater security guys are on us.”  She pokes her head out into the hall and looks both ways.

“But wait,” I protest, “Shouldn’t I get dressed first?”

She turns around, looks down at my piece, then gives me a leering wink.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I can’t help but smile.

This could simultaneously be the most terrifying and best day of my life.


Maybe you’re a persecuted Man Whore like me and need a quick escape from an all-powerful, Illuminati-connected, mentally unstable admirer.  In that case, Echo will provide you with JUST the escape route you need!  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 #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book


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