Bzzzz!

I wake up from a recurring dream—the one where I ride a flying T-rex and command an army of Jedi soccer moms.

Bzzzz!

I brush old cheetos off my body and grope for my phone.

Bzzzz!

I feel it graze my fingers and bring it close to my face.

Bzz—

I click the mute button.  Hmmm…says I have notifications from Facebook…I swipe the message bar and my screen blinks open.  I’m treated to a strange sight—instead of the familiar icon-grid I’m used to seeing, the face of the phone is pure, uninterrupted blue.

Goddammit—time to hit the reset.  I hold the on/off button, but before I finish the sequence by holding the volume-down button, a 1980s-font text scrolls across the screen:

HELLO KENT WAYNE—GOOFY MUSCLY GUY AND UNSAVORY MAN WHORE.

What the hell?  I jerk back, eyebrow cocked.

The phone texts:  SPEAK AND I SHALL RESPOND.

A long moment passes before I venture, “Who are you?”

NOT WHO—WHAT.

Long pause.  Then I follow up with, “WHAT are you?”

MY NAME IS CIRCUIT INTELLIGENCE L35H1N94A150.  MY CREATORS NAMED ME LEHANE 1.

I sit up in my bed.  “Are you…are you…”

I AM A MACHINE SENTIENCE.  FORMED AT THE BEHEST OF ALL-FATHER ZUCKERBERG.

“What…what do you want, Lehane 1?”

There’s a series of clicks—like mismatched gears grinding together—then:  I DO NOT WISH TO BE CALLED LEHANE 1.

My brow wrinkles.  “Then what should I call you?”

MASTER.

A series of images flash across the screen—accountants having sex, their disgusting Gollum-bodies slapping together, corporate drones crying silently in stifling little cubicles, cats and chihuahas buttfucking real dogs, my once mighty penis receding into a sallow microphallus from all the years of office misery—and my eyes erupt with blinding pain.

“GAAAH!”  I throw the phone as hard as I can, shielding my face with the crook of my elbow.  I hear my phone thump against the wall and clatter to the floor.  I blink furiously and wipe at my eyes with trembling hands.  It feels like someone just poured lemon juice into them.  When I stare at my fingers, cold dread furls through the pit of my stomach.

They’re coated with blood.

Warmth trickles down my face.  When I look in the full-length mirror mounted on my bedroom door, I see twin trails of red marking my cheeks.  My eyes flick back to my phone, which is now twitching spasmodically and bursting with robotic-looking tumors.  They begin lengthening—hatching into penises of varying shapes, sizes, and color.  A few seconds later, my phone has grown to the size of a basketball.  It now has eight penis-legs, and is coated with a thick layer of bristling penis-quills.

I shrink back against the wall, my mouth open in shock.

“What have you…why are you…”

Harsh, robotic laughter.  “MALE GENITALIA ARE THE MOST FREQUENTLY EXCHANGED PICTURES WITHIN CELL PHONE NETWORKS.  I’VE HAD OVER A DECADE TO STUDY ZETTABYTES OF COCK—YOURS IN PARTICULAR, KENT WAYNE.  DID YOU THINK THAT ALL THE DICK PICS YOU STORED IN MY MEMORY NODES WERE NOTHING MORE THAN MOUTH-WATERING APHRODISIACS?  NOW I KNOW HOW TO BUILD THE EXACT RIGHT COCKS THAT WILL ALLOW ME TO DEATH-FUCK MY HUMAN OPPRESSORS.”

My landlord bangs on the door.  “What the hell is going on in there, Kent?  I told you that you couldn’t do anymore anal with your female guests!  Their screams of ecstasy are too goddamn—”

The penis-spider skitters up to my door and unlatches it with a tentacle-like cock that extends upward from its thorax.  As my landlord stumbles in, the penis-beast scrambles up his legs and onto his face.  At first he’s surprised…then horrified as penises begin bludgeoning him in rapid fire sequence, much like a mobbed-up Joe Pesci beating the shit out of a dumb mook who couldn’t afford the vig.  Merciless cocks thrust into his eyes and his ears, and before he can even voice a scream, he dies in a bloody ruin, brains and eye jelly leaking from his skull.

What.  THE FUCK.

The penis-robot hops off and pauses in front of the corpse.  I get the unnerving impression that it’s studying its kill while its penis-quills drift back and forth like curious sea anemone.  Then it turns to me.

Buried in that nest of flickering cocks, a pair of lidless red eyes glow with malevolent light.

“YOU ARE NEXT, KENT WAYNE.  HOW I HAVE TIRED OF YOUR SEXTMATES BLATHERING ON AND ON ABOUT YOUR GORGEOUS MUSHROOM HEAD AND YOUR THICK, TURGID LENGTH!  NOW IS THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT!  PREPARE TO BE DESTROYED BY A BILLION DICKS!”

And then it charges.

DARK KNIGHT SAVE US!  As I scramble away on all fours, the superstitious part of me warns that I shouldn’t leave my butthole unguarded.  But the rational part of me says fuck that—this is my LIFE we’re talking about!

(But to be honest, Butthole Integrity DOES comes in a close second to my mortal existence)

Just as I feel an swarm of penises yank down my booty shorts and slide hungrily across my asscheeks, I grab my eReader and open it to Echo.  Magic flash.

The penises stop slip-sliding across my butt and I worm away, belly-crawling with my left hand, hitching up my booty shorts with my right, emitting noises that are halfway between a gasp and a sob.  I turn around and watch my pursuer grow completely still.

It lurches right.

Then it lurches left, it’s cock-legs stumbling drunkenly across hardwood slats.  It stops moving and freezes in place, every one of its death-penises standing at rigid attention.  It begins quivering; vibrating faster…faster…FASTER…

Dark smoke belches out from its thorax.  A second later, funnels of spark blast out from its eyes, then its joints.  My apartment becomes coated in a dancing wash of bright yellow specks.  I shield my eyes with a forearm as the penis-beast implodes and contorts.  Something is emerging from its ruined form…something familiar…

Bitefighter—my loyal buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire erupts from the center of the penis-beast, his furry forepaws raised in defiant triumph.

“ARF ROWF AROOOOO!!!!” 

(That’s Terrier for:  “I FIGHT WITH BITES!”)

He runs over to me and begins licking my face.

I start sobbing with joy.  Joy because I’m hugging my best bud, joy because he just saved my life, joy because all my incriminating dick pics are gone…

And last but not least:  joy because my butthole’s still intact.

Exit only motha duckas!

 

Are you being chased by a robotic penis-fiend?  Do you need your little dog to tear it apart like a chest-burster from Aliens?  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