We Grammar Nazis once ruled a proud empire; we drowned classrooms in red ink and pedantic nerdisms. We made great strides in eliminating new thought and novel ideas, crushing the hopes and dreams of countless authors and replacing them with nitnoy rules and soulless technicalities. We leached all meaning out of Hemingway, Tolkein, and all those crazy-ass writers that didn’t just study text, but studied LIFE.
But our ambitions grew too big—we underestimated one writer in particular, a writer we initially dismissed because he was something of an ass; he liked to swear and engage in nonintellectual activities such as lifting weights and indulging in cannabis, as well as sell his prodigious manhood to frustrated suburban mothers.
Kent fucking Wayne.
My name is Herman Snerdbert, and I’m huddled around a campfire with two of my surviving Grammar Nazi comrades: Alistair, Reginald. We’re reminiscing about times we almost killed the cursed Kent Wayne and his villainous terrier Bitefighter.
Alistair: “—and there was another time when I ambushed him with chloroform and inserted him into a fully immersive virtual reality cradle. I’d almost turned him into one of us when he unconsciously flexed his cock and knocked out my entire staff of scientists.”
Reginald: “I weaponized red ink into a Joker-style venom and injected him with it. His hairline had receded, his mammoth phallus had shrunk to the size of an acorn, and he’d begun harping at people to use “So and so and I” vs “Me and so and so” before his cursed dog managed to turn him back.” Reginald stares at the fire. Red glints dance off his eyes. “So close…so damn close.” He clenches his fists and bares his teeth. “DAMN that hooligan!”
Alistair turns to me. “What about you Herman? Can you think of another instance where you nearly destroyed our hated enemy? I’ve almost gotten him three times, and Reginald four. You’re still at two, so you’re on the hook for the first round when we head to the wine bar. Unless you’ve got another instance in mind…”
I look from Reginald to Alistair and shake my head. “I can’t think of anything right off the bat…but there’s something I’d like to show you. I’ve managed to steal one of Kent Wayne’s prized possessions, and I think we might be able to use it to reestablish our former glory.”
They lean in, staring avidly at me. “What is it?” Reginald asks. “What do you have?”
I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Blue-green lightning flashes across me, enveloping me in a wash of blazing energy. My glasses crinkle and implode. I grow a true chin and jawline, replacing the soft folds of neck-skin that butt right up to my mouth. Muscle ripples across my hirsute frame. I throw my head back and roar, my eyes glowing with otherworldly light.
I emerge from the husk of Herman Snerdbert and reveal my true form:
Kent Wayne—professional Man Whore, at your service.
Reginald and Alistair have tumbled off their logs and are scooting back across the sand, staring at me with widened eyes and gaping mouths.
“That’s right.” I grin. “I’m Kent fucking Wayne.”
Reginald scrambles to his feet but before he can run, I twist my hips and send my anaconda-like phallus slicing through the air. It wraps his feet in quick, bolo-like gyrations and I yank my hips back, sending him crashing to the ground. His chin hits the deck and he’s knocked unconscious. I walk toward Alistair, my grin widening, my cock waving through the air like a charmed cobra.
“Stay back.” Alistair spreads his fingers and extends his hand at me in a futile attempt to ward me off. “STAY BACK!”
When I’m standing over him, I rasp a single phrase:
“Wha-what?” Firelight gleams off his panicked eyes.
I send the head of my dick rocketing toward his forehead—wh’PAP!—slapping his face with the fury of a meth-ed up Tyson. He pitches back and hits the deck, knocked cold. On his brow there’s a clearly defined outline—the head of my phallus has printed a mushroom-like bruise onto Reginald’s skull.
Mushroom stamp, biotch! 😀
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