Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

Can I pose as a bro?  Absolutely!  During my normal day-to-day excursions I usually wear jeans and some kind of nerd-shirt, but it’s a different story in the gym; I’ve found through many years of gym-going that people are more apt to let you work in at the squat rack or trade off equipment with you if you somehow convince them that your free time is consumed with babble about achieving PRs, staying anabolic, and going beast-mode.  I can throw all the words and concepts right back at ’em (I kinda see my body like a fun science project that has the added benefit of attracting ladies if I manage it in a certain way), but honestly I just like to get in there and have a peaceful hour or so where I sling some iron and let the world drop away.  That’s exactly what I’m doing right now.

A few feet away there’s a couple dozen douche-bros, all talking about smashing or hitting or whatever cheesy term they use nowadays to describe sexual intercourse.  It’s not all boffery-related; I hear the typical bro-subjects make their customary appearance—arm-chair quarterbacking on various MMA scenarios, generic tattoos that espouse conformity with just the right dose of manufactured edginess, as well as a spirited debate about what liquor is best.  Jesus—could you get any more unoriginal than these Ed-Hardy-worshipping fucks?  Slap up a random conglomeration of skulls, angel wings, and gangsterized font and it’s a sure bet that these jerkoffs will circle that shit like matter being drawn into a collapsed neutron star.

Anyways, I’m fairly fit, and the only time I wear a tight shirt is in the gym, so their confirmation bias that all in-shape people are one of them protects me from their axe-body-spray-inundated vapidity.  As I finish up a set of squats, making sure I’m hitting deep in the pocket for each rep, my headphones slip out from my iPhone that’s secured to my tricep via neoprene armband.  My glitchy-ass phone, instead of going silent like it’s supposed to, switches to speaker mode and reveals my embarrassing predilection for girly pop and easy listening.  The Bangles classic “Eternal Flame” rips through the air:

“Say my name…the sun shines through the rain…”

SHIT!  I whip my phone out from the armband and hit pause but it’s too late:  legions of bros are looking at me with a look that’s analogous to what you might direct at someone if they drowned out the best man’s wedding toast with the loudest, smelliest fart you could possibly imagine.  Palpable judgment radiates from a sea of disgusted faces.

The lead bro steps forward.  “Hey dorkfuck.  You’re gonna have to leave.  We don’t tolerate that bullshit in our gym.”

I can’t help but scoff.  “YOUR gym?  Dude, you don’t own this place.  It’s not like—”

He goes red in the face and screams, “OURS MOTHERFUCKER!  BROS OWN ALL GYMS!  GO BACK TO YOUR OWN KIND AND TALK ABOUT PHILOSTOPHY OR NOT GETTING LAID OR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU NERDS TALK ABOUT!”

(Think he meant to say “philosophy” but considering who I’m speaking with, the error doesn’t come as a shock.)

All the other bros either cross their arms or start doing that weird bro-clap where they hunch forward like monkeys and bring their hands together with exaggeratedly bent limbs, all the while looking side to side for approval like the insecure chimpanzee fuckfaces they are.  A chorus of “Yeah!” and “Right on Bro!” and similar remarks erupt from the half-wit ape-men that now surround me.

I raise my phone up to Lead Bro’s mug and use the camera to run his features through a facial recognition program designed by my best bud and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire Bitefighter, who also happens to be a genius of intergalactic caliber (an 83rd level intellect, if you want to be technical about it).

His brows stitch together in puzzlement.  “The hell did you just do?”

I return my phone to my pocket and my gaze to his eyes.  “Bryson, right?  Bryson Mills?  My God, man—suburbia just oozes off your name.  Your mother’s Maddie Mills, correct?  Maiden name Maddie Anderson?”

Bryson brings clenched fists up to his ribs.  “What did you to my mom?” he whispers venomously.

I reach into my wallet, flip out a business card form one of its holsters, and hold it up so that its front is clearly visible.  “In addition to being a writer and a world-class goofball, I’m also a professional Man Whore.  You’re mother hired me as such while your corporate overfiend father was busy figuring out how to deprive third-world peasants of a few more ounces of happiness.”

“WHAT DID YOU TO MY MOM???” he screams.

I reply evenly, “Nothing much—I simply accommodated her request that she be stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

His entire head goes bright crimson.  Breaths rush through his nose in quick spurts, and his cheeks start jiggling in angry tics.

To add humor to my words I state the obvious:  “By ‘stuffed’ I mean she repeatedly ordered me to insert my erect penis into her moistened va—”

“GET HIM!”

Legions of bros come charging at me.  Shitfuck; I can handle myself against one or two, but not dozens.  Only one option left:  I open my eReader to Echo.  Magic flash.

The entire wall behind me explodes in a haze of crumbled drywall and broken plaster.  A rousing warrior cry—unmistakably female—erupts behind me and I can’t help but hunch forward and cover my head with my arms in a protective posture.  Through the dust-filmed air, I glimpse Maddie and several other of my soccer mom clients.  My eyes widen in surprise.

“Maddie?  Lindsay?  Stephanie?”

She gives me a nod, followed by a hard grin.  “Can’t let our favorite turkey-stuffer be taken out by our misguided sons, can we?”  She turns her battle-steeled eyes onto the phalanx of douche-bros and screams, “Soccer moms…ATTAAAAAAACCKKKK!!!”

Every lady who’s partaken of my filthy Man Whore body—all dignified, beautiful, and highly successful—lets out a bloodcurdling shriek and charges forward in defense of my penis.  A wave of poignant gratitude crashes through me, and I find myself wiping away tears and sniffing back sobs.

A few minutes later, piles of douche-bros lay on the ground, now bloody and unconscious.  Maddie walks up to me with a stony gaze.

“Kneel, whore.”

I hiss through my teeth and awkwardly rub my neck.  “Am I on the clock right now?”

An irritable flap of her hand.  “Of course.”

I get on my knees.

She traces a manicured finger along my jawline…then grasps my chin with viselike fingers.

“Stick out your tongue.”

I obediently comply.

She bends forward and plunges her tongue into my mouth, mashing our lips together in a super-sloppy, porn-worthy kiss.  Then, using the acumen she’s gained from years of jiu-jitsu, tae bo, cardio kickboxing, and whatever other martial arts alpha moms master, she flips me into the air like a sack of potatoes and hoists me onto her shoulder.

“Come on,” she says to the other moms.  “Let’s snort coke off this man-slut’s butt and use him like cheap Safeway brownie mix.”

*70s porn music*

 

Have you committed a gym faux pas and now require a team of dedicated, sex-nuts strong soccer moms to rescue your beleaguered ass?  Not a problem!  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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