I pull up to the red light and oh hey—what do you know! Taylor freakin’ Swift! I stare at her for a long moment, trying not to squeal like a giddy little school girl (yeah I can spout Man stuff with the best of ’em, but there’s no denying my love for “Style”).
And then she starts picking her nose.
Gross…oh my god, she’s really getting in there. My mind experiences a weird dissonance as I witness a picture perfect pop princess going knuckles-deep for green gold. I can’t help but gag as I watch her index finger writhing around like some predatory worm…
And then she turns and locks eyes with me. Her gaze widens in shock, then narrows in fury. Her finger slips out of her nostril (Yuck! I think I saw a piece of brain come out!) and she quickly wipes it on her $100k jeans. Even though we’re separated by the glass from my car and the glass from hers, I can still hear her outraged scream:
“NO ONE WATCHES ME PICK A GOOB AND LIVES TO TELL ABOUT IT—NO ONE!!!”
Duckfuck! I stomp on the gas, and the whine of tires fills the air. I weave through busy San Francisco traffic at 100 mph, desperately trying to get away from this top 40s monstrosity. A furtive glance into my rear view mirror reveals she’s right on my tail, her red-tipped fingers firmly clutching the wheel. Her vindictive glare emotes pure hate.
I see her reaching to her side and—JEE-zus!—brandish a skorpion vz. 61 machine-pistol with an extended clip. She pokes it out the driver’s side window and fires off a burst. BRRT!
SHIT! I duck and flinch as sparks rattle off my external rearview. One of the rounds hits dead center, turning the smooth plane of glass into a spider web of cracks.
BRRT! BRRT! Scatters of holes appear on my back window, and I hear the telltale snap of .32 ACP slicing past my ears. I duck again as more rounds disintegrate my back window—it collapses in place and fragments onto the highway—and slam forcefully into my passenger-side seat. Puffs of cushioning jump up from the impacts, like some kind of heinous popcorn with a large side of fuck-you-up bullets.
Only one option left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Hundreds of yards ahead, I see a giant truck decorated with gargoyles and spikes speeding toward us. It zips past my left side, past Taylor, then giant puffs of black smoke stream off its wheels as it cuts a j-turn and speeds toward us. Its vertical tail-pipes belch funnels of smoke-threaded flame as it deftly weaves in and out of traffic. Who the fuck is driving that thing? Behind the wheel—is that…
Holy shit! It’s James Hetfield, lead singer of Metallica!
The rest of the band climbs out of the truck’s cab and stand up on its bed. They begin wailing away on their electric axes, belting out their 1986 classic: “Master of Puppets.”
“JUST CALL MY NAME ’CAUSE I’LL HEAR YOU SCREAM…”
MenemeneMEH! MenemeneMEH! I purse my lips and start head-banging along.
“OBEY. YOUR. MASTER!”
But Taylor can’t take it. I see her shrieking and covering her ears with both hands. She spins out into the left-side median, crumpling her front-end against solid concrete.
Metal wins. Every time. 😉
Have you accidentally witnessed a pop princess indulging in gross behavior, and are now fleeing for your life while she tries to hunt you down and silence you by any means necessary? 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