Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

I hate driving through this part of town.  It’s filled with rich snobs that could double as reincarnations of those self-absorbed douche-holes from the Great Gatsby—that’s if you made their spirit-bio-gestalt 25% more Reptoid and also made them dependent on freshly harvested souls for sustenance and nourishment.  Nevertheless, this is the shortest way through the city on the way back to my Man Child hovel.  And whaddaya know—my usually reliable Jeep suffers a flat.  I get out to change the tire when I hear a passing group of rich socialites scoff at my plight.

“Look at this peon!” one of them brays.  “I hope you enjoy slaving away beneath the hot looms of my father’s clothing manufactory, you witless oaf!”

And:  “Dirty troglodyte!”

And:  “Foppish dunderhead!”

(Yeah I’m thinking the same thing you are—where do these morons get their insults from?  This isn’t a fucking Angela Lansbury mystery.)

I turn away from the tire, my face shiny with sweat from the midday sun, and I give them a level stare.

“You self-involved pork-holsters don’t yet realize that you’re destined to live a sad life defined solely by your bank accounts, and that after brief but unfulfilling affairs with your tennis trainers, you’ll die in an ambien-riddled haze, feebly masturbating along to some Eyes-Wide-Shut, depraved-ass bullshit.”

For a long moment their mouths drop open…then they do something that blows my fucking mind:  they throw their shoulders back, letting their clothes fall off and revealing jet-black robes beneath.  They reach into their $30k handbags and withdraw double-ended lightsabers, each one igniting with a skull-rattling vvvSSHHHH-VMMMMMMM.

(I knew it!  Rich bitches are actually Sith lords in disguise!)

There’s no one to play Duel of The Fates (the Darth Maul theme song), but because I’m a consummate nerd (and because a decent chunk of my personality could double as Peter Griffin’s from Family Guy), I start humming a really annoying version of it:


(I didn’t really intend to—just my inner Man Child bubbling up and taking control)

I snap-roll left as a crackling length of kyber crystal-formed energy carves into the pavement I was kneeling on.  I throw my lug wrench at the attacking socialite’s forehead and it whirls through the air, hitting her skull with a meaty THWACK!  She collapses to the ground, eyes crossed, her noggin visibly dented.  I grab her double-ended lightsaber and engage in a ferocious melee with the three other Sith-socialites.  Just like Maul did, I click the saber apart at its center and transform it into two blades.  Snaps and buzzes fill the air as I deflect the busy attacks of three Dark Side-trained trollops.  Joy surges through my limbs as I live out the desires of a four-year-old Kent Wayne; he would have experienced his first lust-boner at the prospect of skillfully acquitting himself in a lightsaber duel.

The joy inspires me to keep humming through an intricate exchange of laser-sword attacks:  “DAAAAHHH….DAH-dah…….”


I smile and keep going:  “DAH-dah-dadadah; DAH-dah-dadadah—”

But as blades flash and I deflect dozens of stabs and cuts from these crazy-ass Kardashian wannabes, my arms begin to tire and I get sloppy; one of them slices into my right bicep, igniting a small fire on the cloth surrounding it.

“AAAARRR!!” I scream.  I drop a saber, manage a few desperate whirling blocks with my remaining one, then spin away, slamming my back against my jeep and expelling a chain of stilted breaths.

The three of them smile and hem me in.  Once again, there’s no one to play that sick-ass Destiny Music (that’s how I think of it; don’t judge) that plays in A New Hope when Luke is looking all handsome and emo and staring out at the twin suns of Tattooine (it’s known as the Force Theme to all you non-Star Wars-watching heathens.)  Guess that means that I have to hum it:

“Da daaaa…DAAAA….da-da-daaa…daaa…”

One of them goes full Palpatine and hisses, “Soon we’ll put an end to your Man Child ways, and you will no longer be able to hum your inane songs.”

They charge at me and I realize I’m done for.  Unless…

I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo.  Magic flash.

A female in voluminous black robes appears with a crackling bang, accompanied by the whiff of sulfur.  The edge of her hood is covering most of her face.  All that’s visible is the bottom of her nose and a set of cherry-red lips.  My inner Peter Griffin comes out again and I start humming the Imperial March:


She hisses, “Silence,” and raises a hand toward me.  My feet levitate off the ground and I start gasping and sputtering from her Dark Side choke.

The three Sith-socialites turn toward her and raise their sabers in uncertain guard postures.  The figure draws back her hood and releases me.  I collapse to my knees, gagging and clutching at my throat.

Taylor Swift.

The lead socialite stammers, “Milady, what bring you to our humble—”

Taylor’s lips curl back in a ferocious grimace and she raises her hands, hunching over like a malevolent old witch.  Red lightning erupts from her arcanely crooked fingers, forking and cutting through the air at sharp zigzags and enveloping the socialites in hard-angled webs of energy.  They let go of their sabers and drop to the ground, screaming in agony.


Red glimmer lights Taylor’s face as she stabs her fingers at them, twisting them into insectile-lookiung bends.  Her curved lips draw back even further, revealing perfect white teeth that reflect the crimson blaze erupting from her nails.  After the socialites have been reduced to charred, smoking husks, she stops and regards me.

“Your sweet Man Whore ass is MINE, Kent Wayne.  Do you understand?”

I nod meekly.  “Yes Milady.”

She nods back and gives me a sickly grin.  “Good.  Now prepare for a long period of molestation from the best damn country-pop artist the world has ever known.  During our intercourse, I will inform you of the correct moment where you may hum the opening theme to the greatest space opera in the history of man.  Do you understand?”

I reply with another meek nod.  “Yes Milady.”

She telekinetically levitates us into a cockpit of her personal TIE fighter.  We ascend through the atmosphere, then blast into hyperspace.  For the next few months, I serve Taylor as her personal Man Whore.

While I’ll be forever scarred by the experience, I will always treasure that dark, weird (and yes, it was fucking awesome) period of my life.


Which celebrity would YOU choose as your Dark Side savior?  Get yerself a copy of Echo and use it to conjure their beautiful ass into existence!  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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