“The great Kent Wayne,” Steven Seagal intones with impassive gravitas. “I have something to show you.”
I’m on my knees, hands and ankles bound together. He’s reclining on a throne made of gold Sony Walkmans, dressed in nothing but a tiny banana hammock. Due to the copious amount of body hair amassed on his torso, his belly resembles a beach ball-sized tarantula.
“I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Dude, could you put something on? I really don’t want to see your—”
“No, look,” he says in his Cool Guy rasp, “I’ve got a new tattoo.” He stands up from his throne and walks toward me, yanking down his banana hammock.
“NNNNGGGHHHH!!!” I turn away, wincing in disgust as he pulls out his tiny cock. He flicks it a few times like a doctor flicking a syringe.
“Look,” he repeats. “New tattoo.”
I try to keep my voice level. “YOU look, Weirdo McWeirdface—how about you let me go and we’ll call it even, huh? I won’t call the cops, I won’t seek revenge, just—”
“I got an ancient Mandarin spell tattooed on my penis. See, that’s the symbol for ‘dragon,’ that one’s ‘holy lightning,’ that one’s—”
I finally take a look. “That’s not Pinyin—those are random Asian-looking characters interspersed with…” I squint at his pitiful bean sprout. “Smiley faces. Some tattoo artist decided to write a bunch of nonsense on your dick and throw in some emojis. They do it to Douche-bros all the time.”
He cranes over his flabby stomach, inspecting his pathetic dick. Finally, he straightens up. “Huh,” he mutters, scratching his head. “How could they fool me? I have an IQ of 374.8.”
“So why don’t you let me go and—”
He shakes his head. “No can do. Now we fight.”
I cock my head. “What?”
“DEATH BY NECK-BEARD!”
He hugs the back of my head and rubs it into his gross, cheesy neck-beard. The odor is like nothing I’ve experienced: old pizza, rotten bacon, cheap Old Spice, formaldehyde, and a host of other disgusting substances. Little chitters erupt around me; the rudimentary life forms residing in his beard are skittering across my face. I’m screaming in horror, lost in a hell of Fake Martial Arts Crazy.
Only one option left. I reach into my pocket and click my eReader open to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Something crashes through the wall, and Steven Seagal releases my head. I gasp and blink as my vision fills with giant blotches of buzzing color. When my sight clears, I see that Steven is facing off with a denim-clad Chuck Norris, (sleeveless of course), all swole from the Bowflex.
In his mild-yet-badass voice, Chuck says, “Let the Man Child go, Steven.”
Steven Seagal strokes his goatee like some idiot version of a kung fu villain. “First we FIGHT!” Then Steven and Chuck rush toward each other, growling in rage, meeting in a clash of neck-beards. They struggle back and forth, their prodigious facial hair dueling for dominance. At first it seems Steven has the advantage…then Chuck presses back, forcing Seagal down to his knees…
“FUCK THIS NOISE!” Steven Seagal rolls away, his pale flabby buttocks jiggling and rolling. He sprints to his throne, reaches into a secret compartment hidden beneath it, and yanks out a jet-pack. He throws it on and activates it, flying out of his throne room and giving us the finger. “EAT MY ASSSSSS!!!” he screams as he departs.
Chuck unties me and dusts me off. “You were lucky, Kent.”
I sigh in relief. “Don’t I know it.”
Never mess with an aging Martial Arts Crazy! Especially one with a disgusting neck-beard!
Are you being oppressed by some idiot who’s fully taken by delusions of grandeur? 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