Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

I may be old, but don’t let that fool you—your favorite author (and perennial Man Child) Kent Wayne is still full of piss and vinegar.

I’ve spent the last five years living in an old folks home—appropriately called the Big Sleep—tripping balls as I get closer to the end.  When I was younger, I made a promise to myself:  if I ever survived my youth and started winding down towards the ol’ dirt nap, I would eat mushrooms by the handful and regularly take a big ol’ suck on the DMT pipe, just to make sure my mind was primed for the Great Beyond.  Subsequently, I spend a good deal of my time visiting the Astral Wizards of Elothia, the Lorax, and something that looks like a giant penis with a thousand legs.  And oh yeah—my brain doesn’t look the same in the energetic realm; instead of a pulsing mass of grossness it transforms into a glass cage with a hamster inside of it.  Apparently, my cognition is powered by a furry little fella running on a chaos-magic hamster-wheel.

(I call him Professor Oatmeal.)

Anyways, all is not well at the Big Sleep.  Other old folks have gravitated toward me and my peculiar inclinations—I’ve created a self-defense system that capitalizes on walkers, canes and dentures, and I’ve also put together a pretty jolly Magic:  The Gathering club—but our organization of happy, hobbit-like souls is being subjected to the bitter machinations of an evil old fogey.

Amos never liked me; even though I’m younger than him, many of his followers—from his club of jerkoffs who enjoy staggering around with their mouths gaped open or bemoaning the young rassa-frassas that surround themselves with new-fangled contraptions (Amos’s followers like to blather on about what life was like before the Google machines came and destroyed everything)—gravitated toward my more open, freewheeling approach to life.  He’s been trying to replace my Starcraft n’ Lift nights (where we gather together, play Starcraft, and lift weights during breaks to nullify the horrible sensation of being a computer-bound, good-fer-nuthin’ wastrel; if you haven’t done it then you’re seriously missing out) with Bingo rounds.

I know, right?  What the hell???  The Big Sleep isn’t some twentieth century death-trap where you send Abe Simpson to spout inanities—this is a state-of-the-art facility where we should be allowed to expand our consciousnesses as we ready ourselves to experience the last goodbye!

FUCK Bingo!

Anyways, me and my followers are tripping balls (we’re all professional psychonauts, so we don’t raise an eyebrow when we see walls melt into vaguely vaginal-looking space-alien filled portals; we just go about our business.  Honestly, most of us are a helluva lot more productive when our perceptions are “widened,” as we like to say), when in comes Amos.  He starts waving his cane around, barking orders like he was King Shit hisself.

“Everybody out!  You dirty hippies need to get out of here right now!  It’s Bingo night!”

I pause my game, look at him, and raise one skeptical eyebrow.  “Doesn’t say so on the calendar, Ass Mist.  Get the fuck out of here with your black and white TV shows and your Great Gatsby-esque horseshit.”

He tromps over to the calendar and rips it off the wall.  He’s clearly crossed out our reservations for this room and penciled in his own.  “Calendar says different, Kent.  Vacate this area!”

I rise from my seat and poke his chest with my finger.  I hiss, “You changed the calendar and you know it.  Now get the hell outta here before I beat the wrinkles off your old-ass ballsack.”

He smirks.  “Not a chance.”

I turn to my followers, about to rally them from their Starcraft games, when suddenly I hear Amos yell, “NOW!”

While Amos and I were arguing, a squad of his cronies took the opportunity to spread themselves out around the room,  I failed to notice until this very moment.  They pull the triggers on their tranq guns and shoot feathered darts into my followers’ arms and behinds.  Dozens of heads slump downward.

“You BASTARD!” I yell.  “What did you do to them?”

His smirk widens.  “Relax, Kent.  We’ve simply dosed them with a fentanyl-derivative.  Opioids never hurt anyone.”

I scoff.  “ ‘Opioids never hurt anyone?’  Pull on my other obscenely pendulous nut you—”

“And neither did stimulants.”  He taps a line of blow onto a desk and snorts it up with a rolled up hundo.  He closes his eyes and throws his head back.

“WHOO!” he exclaims, sniffing reflexively.  “That is a GOOD FUCKIN’ BUMP!”  He blinks a few times and meets my eyes with a dilated stare.  “Now where were we?”

Shit!  The stuff I’ve got in my system may cause me to feel purified love and see the undying nature of the fractalized Divine, but it doesn’t enhance my fighting skills like cocaine does.  Amos is ready to go to war.  My stuff might give me some novel insights into tactics and strategies…but it ain’t gonna make me go full-on Bane, like Amos is about to.

Each of his crew take a bump and before I know it they’re charging right at me—a sea of wispy-haired rage and clattering dentures.

“EAT MY ASS!” I scream, swinging a pair of canes like I was Miyamoto Mu-freakin’-sashi.  I manage to put three of them down before the rest pile on, stifling my rage and pulling me to the floor.

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

A Honey Badger busts out of the ceiling vent, running through the room like it was goddamn Taz.  In a matter of seconds, nutsacks rip open, eyeballs dangle from sockets, and dozens of limbs are either broken or twisted; some of them sport bloody jags of bone that poke through the skin.  These coke-freaks may have jacked themselves up with the finest product that Columbia has to offer, but it doesn’t matter:

Nothing fucks with a Honey Badger.

Amos and his followers flee, screaming and clutching their wounded parts.  When the Honey Badger’s done, it busts out the window and runs off.  I see it chew through a tree at full tilt, barely slowing down as it maows its way through a stout mass of gnarled trunk.  I also see it run past several cars, and through its sheer anger, the little dude causes several of the vehicles to explode without even touching them.  The sky becomes eclipsed by spectacular arcs of flaming debris.

I’m not gonna lie—that was awesome.


Perhaps you have to share communal facilities with a gang of unspeakable douchebags.  In that case, release the Honey Badger!  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


5 thoughts on “Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s