TEN MINUTES AGO:
The soccer mom curls a lock of hair behind her ear and gives me a flirty smile. “So what else are you into?”
I stop making out with my flexed biceps and throw her an easy grin. “I’m a big fan of Stephen King’s Dark Tower; it’s one of the few book series I’ve read again and again. They’re a nice reprieve from inane romcoms or disney sitcoms. Blech.”
Her face darkens. “I like romantic comedies. Disney sitcoms, too.”
I hiss through my teeth and my smile turns awkward. “Uh…they’re not all bad…what about all this royal family BS, though, huh? I’m sick of hearing about Kate Middlet—”
“HER NAME IS THE DUCHESS!!!” She cold-cocks me with a Conor Mcgregor-worthy left. I regain consciousness just before I hit the pavement and I scramble to my car, wailing like a little bitch.
I shift into fifth, punching forward and weaving through tightly staggered lines of traffic. Honking horns and shouts of “SLOW DOWN, ASSHOLE!” chase me through San Francisco’s crowded streets.
The soccer moms stay right on my tail, ripping through pedestrians with their indestructible SUVs. In my center rearview, I see one of them crumple a sedan by driving over it like a giant monster truck (I suppress the insane urge to shout, “SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY!”) A fender knocks a fire hydrant off its mooring, causing a geyser of water to jet skyward. The air is filled with screams and chaos.
I veer around an old lady with a walker—FUCK!—barely missing her, ruffling her cat-lady scarf with the kinetic energy of my 100 mph swerve. Her eyes widen and she clasps her scarf to her collar, expelling a breathy “Oh my!”
Automatic gunfire erupts behind me as vengeful soccer moms stutter out 6-8 round bursts. Some aim low, going for my tires, while some aim high, spider-webbing my windows with cracked veins of glass. Goddamn—they’re professionals! I guess if you’re able to fix your kids’ organic entrees for school lunch, do hot yoga 3 days a week, get your black belt in Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, AND run a million-dollar work-at-home business, then combat shooting is child’s pl—
VRRRRMMMM!!! A latex-jumpsuited soccer mom pulls in front of me on a motorcycle. Before I can turn left or right, the rear console of her bike opens up and a scatter of caltrops (spiky obstacles that puncture tires) tumble out, tinking against the road.
BFFF! My tires blow out in gut-churning pops. My vision goes whirly as I grip the wheel, trying to straighten my car as it spins like a top. It’s no use—mid-spin my car tumbles through the air, and sky and street blur into a gray-blue flicker. Something hits the back of my head—
—and I wake up lying on the pavement. Armed soccer moms are standing over me, pointing submachine guns or assault rifles right at my mug.
The lead one asks, “Any last words, blasphemer?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
I close my eyes, flexing my prehensile genitals (ancient Man Whore trick) and they burst from my torn pants, rippling in the air like one of those inflatable tube guys you usually see outside car dealerships. They gaze at it in wonder, eyes widened in a mix of lust and astonishment.
“My god…it curves UP…”
“Perfect length, definitely on the thicker side…”
“I’m guessing a 5.5 inch circumference…”
“By Rachael Ray’s fair-trade frittatas…”
As the lead mom wipes drool from her lips with the back of her wrist, I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The sun is eclipsed by a tiny dot which quickly grows into a recognizable figure: Bitefighter—my loyal buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire—flies toward me on a tricked-out hang glider, SF skyline flashing across his tactical doggles. He comes in low and fast, and slings a quick-don harness onto my body. It snaps onto my torso in a series of contained explosions and gas-cartridge pops. The decelerant winch goes taut, then I’m flying through the air. He dives forward—for a terrifying instant I’m rocketing past heads and cars as I’m pulled by my harness—then he hits a thermal, and we both rise high into the clear sunny blue.
The soccer moms go full auto, filling the air with a mix of 5.56 and 7.62. Their deafening rage is music to my ears.
‘DAMN YOU KENT WAYNE! DAAAMMMMNNN YOOOUUUUU!!!”
I laugh and wave, rejoicing in my narrow escape.
The adventures of Man Child and Bitefighter continue!
Have you made fun of all that is yuppie, and you’re now being chased by a fleet of armed soccer moms in their indestructible SUVs? 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