My name is Kent Wayne 406. I’m an elite operator within Kent Wayne’s Special Operations Sperm reservoir (his ballsack). We call ourselves SOS operators.
Think I’m here to just make a baby? Think again. Contact those mindless bozos in the Spermatozoic Marine Corps for that straightforward, charge-the-hill bullshit. All due respect to those fellas—SOS operators typically perform the same actions on target; we just use more exotic infil and exfils—but our rigorous training allows us to stay in theater for longer periods of time, and also operate at higher tempos. Sometimes, we get tasked with a super difficult mission, one that no one really knows how to plan. SOS operators get first crack at it because we’re designed to thrive in nonpermissive environments with high levels of ambiguity.
In other words, when you’ve got a crazy-ass op that needs to get done, we’re the crazy-ass sperm that volunteer to do it.
I’m nearing the end of a months-long operation, one that required billions of my fellow operators to get in position and wait for the exact right moment. The entire host-body was involved in this one; Kent Wayne’s prefrontal cortex coordinated strategy and smooth talk, his amygdala cooled down so he could talk intelligibly to the scores of ladies that he needed to mate with…even his brainstem and cerebellum had to contribute, keeping copacetic so the host-body could do its thing.
This is probably a little confusing—don’t worry; it’ll all be clear soon enough.
I’m not in the host-body right now—as a matter of fact, I’m in the body of one of Kent Wayne’s enemies. Martha Stewart and her elite cadre of Food Network stars has beaten Kent Wayne bloody, and are now gloating as he kneels before them. Currently, I’m in Padma Lakshmi, observing the outside world through a neural connector: a piece of gear developed by the nerds up in the prefrontal cortex. Right before we were launched from Kent Wayne’s ballsack, every SOS guy was issued one. They’ve been specially designed so they can hook directly onto our mitochondria rig. Once I got blasted into Padma, I was able to make it womb-side and hook the connector into her tissues. It functions much like a fish-eye camera, enabling me to watch outside events through her optic nerve.
“You think you could have sex with ALL of us, you filthy Man Whore?” I watch Martha Stewart backhand Kent Wayne across the mouth, whipping his head violently sideways. “You think that none of us would notice?” CRACK! This time it’s a forehand—Kent Wayne nearly falls onto his side as the prison-hardened celebrity slaps the shit out of him.
When he straightens up, he favors her with a toothy smile. “For over a dozen years, you’ve kept me as your Man Whore slave. Sorry, but I can no longer stand silently by. I can no longer be your subservient slut.”
She laughs scornfully. “And look where that got you! Kent Wayne—fabled Man Whore and author, kneeling before the most powerful women to ever grace the Food Network!” She cackles harder. “About to get castrated with a dull butter knife!”
“That’s what you think, is it?” Kent rasps out a dark chuckle—one that would make Batman proud. “No, I’ve gathered all of you here for a purpose; I wanted to take all of you out at the same time.”
Martha cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. “And how are you going to do that, you delusional fuckwit?”
His smile grows wider. “You’re about to find out.”
And then he falls sideways and shimmies his torso, causing an eReader to fall from his pocket. His right foot lashes out, opening it to Echo.
That’s the signal. I key rapid-fire commands into the neural connector’s console. My SOS brothers have just done the same, because I see every single one of Kent’s jailers—Giada, Rachael Ray, Siba, Marcela, Nadia G as well as a host of others—clutch their bellies and collapse to the floor. Their eyes bug from their heads as they voice a series of horrendous moans.
“I can’t!” Ingrid Hoffman gasps. “I can’t hold it in!”
Martha is on the ground as well, arms crossed over her belly, face contorted into a demonic grimace. “You MUST!” she screams. “You HAVE TO!”
“I can’t hold it either!” Sandra Lee shouts. “I’m going to—”
Martha interrupts with, “LADIES DO NOT FART! ESPECIALLY Food Network ladies! HOLD IT IN, GODS CURSE YOUR—”
And then it begins. Eye-watering flatulence rips through the air, wilting plants in their hangers and causing paint to peel from the walls in giant, tattered strips. Tia Mowry’s left arm gets caught in a blast of ass that rockets out from Haylie Duff’s behind. The deadly gas strips Tia’s arm down to a charred, ember-dotted skeleton. She screams like a dying hyena.
On my neural connector, I see Kent Wayne making a break for it, racing through Martha’s palace in nothing but his underoos.
Mission accomplished, motherfuckers.
I take a moment to key my comms and link with my SOS brethren: “Been a pleasure serving with you gents. See you on the other side.”
Then I swim into Padma’s egg and let my DNA unwind. At last. At long fucking last.
Nine months later, I’ve grown into a giant baby that can deadlift 4x bodyweight with no prior training, and also happens to be well versed in Jeet Kune Do, Silat, Jiu-Jitsu, and a host of other deadly arts. I also possess an eidetic memory and an IQ of 517.
I do not cry as I emerge from the womb. I come from a long lineage of warrior Man Whores, and it would be unseemly.
Look out world—time to get my Kent Wayne on. 😉
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