Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

The doctor flips through my charts, her brow wrinkled above her fashionably narrow glasses.

“Well ah…Mr. Wayne, is it?  I can’t believe what I’m seeing here…” she flips through another handful of pages, straightens her glasses, then looks at me again, cocking her head in a quizzical slant.  “A month ago you tested positive for Ebola, AIDS, several forms of stage 4 cancer, flesh-eating necrosis, as well as various iterations of…of…” she pages through my charts again and gives up.  “I have no idea what these last dozen are.”

“They’re classified bio-weapons.  Designed to beat every conventional test known to man.”

She gives me an if-you-say-so look.  “Um, okay.  The point is, there were hundreds of lethal pathogens rampaging through your body less than a month ago, and now they’re gone.”  She flips the charts closed and peers intensely at me.  “How is that even possible?”

I shrug and reply, “Ancient Man Whore secret.  My body’s been exposed to every disease known to science.  Every now and then they achieve critical mass and kill each other off, leaving my system healthy and clear.”

She gives me a dubious look.

“Flintstone vita-gummies also help,” I add.

She doesn’t seem convinced.

Finally, she coughs into her hand and says, “Right.  Okay, so why don’t we—”

Suddenly a panicked Army colonel bursts in.  He points at me with a trembling finger.  “Is this Kent Wayne?  Man Whore Extraordinaire?”

I regard him carefully.  “I am he.”

“An experimental zombie contagion has gotten out of control!  It’s rampaging across the East Coast, unleashing the anger of already surly dickheads and turning them into murderous killers!”

I hop off the exam table, mindful to use both hands to cup my piece and keep it from falling onto the floor and cracking the tile.  “What can I do to help?”

The colonel wipes sweat off his brow with the back of a trembling hand.  “The guys at CDC say that if we aerosolize your super-sperm, it can check the spread of the virus and return the populace to normal.”

I nod.  “Seems pretty straightforward.  Where do I—”

A furtive swipe of his head.  “Not that simple.  The only missile we have that’s designed to release an aerosol payload on a scale that large has already been fired.  There’s no way to—”

“It’s fired ALREADY?”

“A mistake by NORAD.  We need to get you on that rocket somehow and—”

I hold out my hand in a “stop” gesture.  “Not a problem.  Talk me through how to weaponize its warheads.”

His mouth opens and then closes; obviously, he’s wondering how I’m gonna get on that missile.  “A fifth of the way down from the rocket’s tip is where the warheads are stored.  The circumference of the rocket is encircled by rubberized receiving ports; all you have to do is insert your penis into one, release the sperm, and you’re good to go.”

“Got it.”  I walk over to my pants, withdraw my eReader, and open it to Echo.  Magic flash.

Suddenly I’m clinging to the skin of an ICBM that’s flying over the golden, corn-covered fields of  America’s heartlands.  The merciless slipstream rips off my patient’s gown, exposing the Christmas Pants that I usually wear when I’m hired to dance at holiday bachelorette parties.  I’m about halfway down the rocket, and I use my Man Whore strength to clamber agonizingly up its length.  A few seconds later, my piece is positioned right over one of the receiving ports.  I cling extra hard with my left hand and use my right to pull my junk up (the head typically hangs down by my ankles, and yes—pee-stains on my socks are a constant problem if that’s what you were about to ask), and painstakingly feed it into the receiving port.  I sigh in relief.

But then it hits me:  what now?  The prospect of fucking a rocket doesn’t really do it for me.

The voice of Man Whore Prime (you may know him by his human name:  Charlie Sheen) whispers in my ear:  “You can do this Kent.  Use the Force.”

The Force?  What the hell is this idiot babbling about?  I’m not trying to aim proton torpedoes into a well-defended exhaust vent deep within the Death Star—get the fuck out of here with “use the Force.”

I grit my teeth.  No help there.  But maybe…

I close my eyes and think back to the last bachelorette party I was hired for.  It was hosted by the Illuminati, and all the evil, super intelligent, CIA-assassin-type chicks you might imagine at such an event were attending:  Martha Stewart, Taylor Swift, Rachael Ray, Giada De Laurentiis, Padma Lakshmi, the cabal of soccer moms that secretly command the most powerful and influential conglomerates that run the Earth…nothing revs me up more than a bunch of respectable ladies expressing their secret desire for my idiot Man Whore self.

Before you know it, my piece is at full attention and blasting its payload into the rocket.

Mission accomplished!  I let go of the ICBM and fall towards the dark waters of Lake Michigan.  Just like in the opening pages of Frank Miller’s seminal work The Dark Knight Returns, I think to myself:

This would be a good death…

I splash into icy darkness and the world goes black.

The next thing I know I’m waking up in a hospital bed, listening to the steady beep of my heart monitor.  A Thank You card is lying on my chest.  I open it up and read the message inside.  It says:

 

Dear Kent,

Looking forward to seeing you at our next Man Whore Invitational.

Sincerely, Martha and the rest.

 

I close the card, smile, and relax back onto my bed.  I have the same thought Bats had at the end of that beast-ass opening sequence in DK Returns:  This would be a good death…

But not good enough.

 

What if one day you’re clinging to the freezing skin of an ICBM in mid-flight and the fate of the entire world depends on your ability to trick your body into sexual arousal?  Never fear!  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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