Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

Do be do be dooo…I breaststroke my way through the mounds of empty mountain dew bottles which have formed a miniature sea of plastic within my bachelor pad.  Eventually, I pop out the other side and into my kitchen.  I walk to the fridge, crack open a can of mountain dew, and slam it down.

“Rowf!”

I glance over my shoulder at Bitefighter (my loyal buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire), who’s just informed me that my studio is gross and that I should clean it up.

“What’s the big deal?” I ask before chugging a throatful of sweet, carbonated ambrosia.  (Can’t beat World of Warcraft Edition Game Fuel Mountain Dew—Odin’s ballsack is it good!)

“Aroo…roof arf rowf!”

“Yeah yeah,” I reply.  “But there’s no bugs yet.  Once we see a bug, we’ll douse everything with Axe Body Spray, okay?”  (HATE bugs!)

His little mouth opens and closes, as if he’s just heard someone try to convince him that cats are better than dogs.  He shakes his head in utter disgust.

“Aroof.”

I’m mid-chug when I hear his insult—I almost spit out the dew but still somehow manage to gulp it down.  “Hey!” I sputter.  “Did you just call me a filthy two-legs???  Don’t be racist!  I do doggy style upon request!”

He rolls his eyes.

“Anyways,” I continue, “It’s not as if—”

“Ruuuuuhhh….”

Me and Bitefighter snap our heads towards the noise.  Then we look at each other with fear-widened eyes.

I whisper, “Did the…did the futon just say something?”

Before he can answer, we hear it again.  Louder this time.

“RUUUUUHHHHH….”

My futon (okay, I admit that I could stand to replace the futon.  Imagine if a hill giant had rummaged through its purse and thrown one of its used handkerchiefs on my apartment floor.  That’s exactly what my futon looks like right now) begins twitching and spasming.  It’s sides are bulging with tumorous lumps.  The lumps quiver…stretch…then gigantic insect-legs burst from their centers.  Bitefighter jumps into my arms and I shrink back against the wall.  We watch, horrified, as more lumps burst from the mattress and morph into vaguely familiar shapes.  They look like heads with afros…God help us, I think I recognize them…I think they’re…

They turn kindly gazes up toward the sky and screech, “I’M BOB MOTHA FUCKIN’ ROSS!!!  AHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Dozens of psychopathically genial eyes lock onto me and gabble out a chain of benevolent, soul-soothing phrases.  All of them are somehow painting-related.

“Mmmm…yeah…just a little bit of turquoise here…”

“Scrape scrape scrape—and wouldja look at that:  those are some BEAUTIFUL trees…”

“The clouds turned out so fluffy and nice…makes you wanna curl up by the fire and drink a fresh mug of hot chocolate…”

The Bob-mattress begins scrabbling towards me, still emitting its neighborly-sounding babble.  Bitefighter and I flee out the door, running through the moon-glazed black of the San Francisco night.  The Bob-mattress follows, filling the air with tenderhearted mumbo-jumbo.

Only one option left.  I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

A black-clad, ninja-esque Soccer Mom Prime flips through the air, landing on the mattress in an anime-style crouch.  She starts spinning and whirling, her hands darting from head to head in quick flits, pausing to snap each one’s neck with a dry, efficient twist.  In a matter of seconds, she’s reduced the horrific Bob-mattress into a dead, monstrous lump.  She wipes her hands on her tactical blacks and gives me a look that says, “REALLY, Kent?”  It only makes sense when she follows it up with the actual words:

“REALLY, Kent?” 

She places her hands on her hips and cocks an eyebrow.  The gesture is half-amusement, half-reprimand.

I reply with a shrug and a grin, both sheepish.  “I guess I shouldn’t take pride in being able to backstroke through an apartment filled with empty mountain dews.”

“No shit,” she laughs.  “But don’t worry—I’ll help you clean up.”  She looks me up and down, leers at me, then gives me a lascivious wink.  “That goes for your body too—EVERY part of it.”

I can’t help but smile.

*70s porn music*

We ALL put off replacing our mattress, but have you done it to the point where yours has been invaded by a demon sentience?  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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