Taylor Swift slaps me across the face and screams, “Whore! Slut! Filthy animal!”
Some of her entourage, a bunch of hollering Swiftettes, pound the floor with the blunt ends of their halberds and poleaxes. The rest are loosely circled around me. They’re shoving me from one set of hands to the next; I have to use all my focus to keep from tripping or falling.
Their voices rise in an unholy chorus:
“RIP HIS BALLS OFF AND STUFF ‘EM INTO HIS EYE SOCKETS!”
“POUR ANGRY SCORPIONS ONTO HIS TAINT!”
And then: “MAKE GARY BUSEY DO CROSSFIT AND HAVE HIM SIT ON KENT’S FACE!”
Taylor slowly turns to the right and glares at the minion who’s just requested this unspeakable torture. In an ice-cold voice, she says, “We have standards, Stephanie. We are not monsters.”
Stephanie lowers her head and mutters, “Sorry, milady.”
Taylor turns back to me and shouts, “COMMENCE WITH THE HARANGUING!”
“USE FISH-HOOKS AND ION-POWERED STARSHIPS TO DRAW AND QUARTER HIS MASSIVE PENIS!”
“MAKE HIM EAT VEGAN FOR THE REST OF HIS DAYS!”
And so it goes, each horrific possibility piling on top of another. I know I don’t stand a chance against Taylor Swift and her black magic-trained thralls, so I do the only thing I can think of to save my beleaguered Man Whore ass.
I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill” begins jetting from a set of SUV mounted speakers. Simultaneously, the walls to my underground dungeon/stockade ground/arena of death rip open in an avalanche of stone, and I see what looks like a zombie-proofed bulldozer rumble its way in.
Green missiles of death labeled “Wilson” and “Yonex” begin zipping through the air. I see handfuls of astonished Swiftettes turn toward their attackers, only to have their head detonate from a well-placed tennis ball. Each projectile sings through the space and explodes someone’s face at 1000 miles per hour.
Above the din and chaos of battle, I hear one of my rescuers cry: “TENNIS MOMS….ATTTTAAAAACKKKK!!!!”
The barrage of tennis balls begins in earnest. THWOCK! ShooooOOOOOMMMM…SPLUTCH! A Swiftette’s severed arm flies past my face. THWOCK! ShooooOOOOOMMM SPLAT! Another green ball rockets into a Swiftette’s belly, causing a mess of organs and vertebrae to blow out her back.
The Swiftettes are routed. They’re screaming and trying to find cover, but it’s no use; tennis balls are destroying limbs, brains, and torsos. I see Taylor Swift hiss in anger. She twirls in place, using her necromantic powers to transform her body into a flutter of bats. They spiral upward and the Dark Lady vanishes from sight.
I breathe a sigh of relief as Tennis Mom Prime helps me to my feet. “Thank you,” I gasp.
She slaps the flat of her hand with the edge of her racket. “Make no mistake, Kent; we didn’t rescue you for free.”
I stop dusting myself off and give her a suspicious look. “Oh?”
She licks her lips and winks suggestively. “Not at all.”
I fix my bow tie and straighten up, trying to project as much dignity as I can muster. “I am a professional Man Whore, madam. I charge by the hour.”
She winks again. “Not a problem.”
The only phrase I can think of at that moment is: God bless all Tennis Moms.
*70s porn music*
Has some batshit pop star trapped you in a dungeon and is now threatening your hairy necessaries? 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