Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

I’m at a Halloween party, dressed up as a Man Whore pirate (bow tie, booty shorts, no shirt, and an eyepatch) bopping along to whatever they’re playing over the speakers.  Bitefighter (my loyal buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire) has dressed up as a cat; he’s getting a lot of attention because he’s perfected the Feline Look of Disdain, as well as that super affected walk that cats are always doing (as if they’re runway models in freakin’ Milan or something).  We’re stuffing our faces with candy and pizza, chumming it up with naughty nurses and witches and whatever other cool costume the ladies have thrown on.  Every now and then I get approached by a Sausager (this is how I refer to men who talk to me at parties because they seem intent on trying to turn my night into a sausage-fest.  Seriously dude, if I wanted to have man-time then I’d go to a Magic:  The Gathering meetup or something).  When this happens, I have to make my escape with a few vacant nods followed by a “Cool story, bro.”

Anyways:  drinks flow, music plays, and more leers are thrown my way, along with more giggling women running by and smacking my butt (thank you, squat rack!).  Bitefighter’s chatting up some giant Irish wolfhound, and I see the two of them discreetly make their way into a bedroom and nudge the door shut.

(What the hell???  He’s always boffing mastiffs, labradors, and great danes.  His junk must be enormous—as big as a baby’s arm holding an apple, at the very least)

Anyways, I continue stuffing my face with beer, peecha (sometimes I call it pissa; that’s just the childish wordsmith in me messing with terminology), candy, and mountain dew.  After a few minutes, I’m cornered by a scantily clad bumblebee.

“Hey,” she says suggestively.  “Wanna have some REAL fun?”

I cock an eyebrow.  “What do you have?”

She holds up a tray of red pens.  “Let’s correct some essays—mark the shit out of some stories for sentence fragments, subject-verb agreement errors, and vague pronoun usage.”

Sweat breaks out across my brow.  I stutter, “You’re…you’re…”

A malicious smile, followed by a quick nod.  “That’s right—we’re Grammar Nazis.” She licks her lips and her smile widens.

“All of us.”

My eyes flick from side to side…then I make a dash for the bedroom I saw Bitefighter disappear into.  “BITEFIGHTER!” I scream, “WE GOTTA GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

But it’s no use—a legion of Grammar Nazis pile onto me, giggling like serial killer goblins.

“GET OFF ME YOU NERDS!” I scream.  But my defiance quickly turns to pleading:  “PLEASE!  CAN’T I JUST DO CRACK OR METH???  I FUCKING HATE GRAMMAR!  AH GOD PLEASE—“

Bitefighter comes busting out of the bedroom, holding my eReader between his teeth.  As he’s running, he snarls with all the fury his tiny body can muster.  He drops my eReader to the floor and noses it open to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.

Magic flash.

Ernest Hemingway appears from a shining rip in the air, eyes gleaming dangerously above his ultra manly Ron Swanson-style facial hair.  He turns his fists up like some nineteenth century pugilist leprechaun and starts mowing through Grammar Nazis with haymakers and crosses.

“GET OFF HIM!” he roars.  “GET OFF HIM YOU LILY-LIVERED SCALLYWAGS!”  As he says the word “scallywag” his coarse-haired knuckles dislocates one of the Grammar Nazi’s jaws, causing it to swing grotesquely to the side.

The rest of the Grammar Nazis flee in gibbering terror, horrified at the prospect of having to fight a Real Writer.  Hemingway continues to fling insults at their retreating backsides.

“POLTROONS!  DUNDERHEADS!  MILKSOPS!”

He stops long enough to chug half a bottle of 100 proof whiskey.  As he wipes streamlets of liquid from his beard, he jams the neck of the bottle into my mouth and—glug glug glug!  The world becomes enhanced by Hemingway Vision (I start looking for potential objects that would serve me as weapons if it came to a bar fight) and I can’t help but blurt:

“I’m hot as a half-fucked fox in a forest fire!  Let’s chase those gadabouts down and give them a taste of what for!”

Hemingway grins and claps me on the shoulder.

“Let’s.”

Man!  You just can’t beat old-timey speak!

 

Have you unwittingly wandered into a vicious den of Grammar Nazis who harangue you over sentence structure so they can distract themselves from their innate lack of creativity?  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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