“This is Kent Wayne’s frontal lobe. Radio check, radio check…all body parts radio check. Over.”
“Hindbrain, checking in.”
“Liver, checking in.”
“Fingers, checking in. Scratching.”
“Buttocks, checking in. Successfully restraining both feces and flatulence.”
And so it goes. Body parts check in one by one, just as I expect them to. Most of Kent Wayne’s parts are pretty good about this, but there’s a trio of fellas I’m not so sure about…
“Cock n’ Balls, what’s your status? Over.”
“Come in Cock n’ Balls—do you read? This is Kent Wayne’s frontal lobe and I’m conducting a radio check of all systems on the host-body’s—”
Then I hear them bickering.
Left nut: “Fuck YOU—”
Right nut: “No, fuck YOU! I’M the bigger one; you can go suck a—”
Cock: “SHUT YER MOUTHS, THE TWO A’ YOUSE! We’ve got one shot at this! Get yer act together goddammit!”
Eyes: “Uh, Frontal Lobe, maybe you should force an override. It sounds like those three are planning a—”
Cock n’ Balls scream: “LET’S DO THIS!” and seize control of the host-body.
The host-body bolts straight up from his bed, dressed in nothing but a bowtie and booty shorts, and begins galloping through the suburbs of San Francisco, hooting and gibbering like a demented ape. The neighbors’ dogs howl their approval as he flies past them. Some of them scrabble their way over fences and join the host-body’s manic charge through the busy streets.
Mouth yells at me: “They’re mutinying, God help us! They’ve taken control! I can’t—”
Cock n’ Balls stifle Mouth, and the host-body screams: “Ook ook AWK!” while beating his chest.
Eyes lock gazes with a beautiful soccer mom, who licks her lips and gives the host-body a pointed stare.
I scream at Cock n’ Balls: “Let me handle this, goddammit! I’ll get you both what you want! You two can’t just—”
Too late. The host-body gallops up to the soccer mom and starts humping her leg. Her lust turns to disgust and she hits us twice with her purse, then unleashes a can of mace right into our face.
The Eyes: “AAAAAAAGHHHH!!!! HOLY SHIT THAT HURTS!!!”
Cock n’ Balls are screaming in glee. They direct the host-body to tear through a kids picnic/birthday party, snatching up fistfuls of cake and guzzling two-liter jugs of fizzling coca-cola. Terrified kids run every which way, scared senseless by the disgusting man-ape that’s crashed into their midst.
Squads of police cars streak up to the curb, their red-and-lights flashing. Cops open their doors, brace against windows, and level pistols at the host-body.
“ON YOUR KNEES, YOU MAN CHILD FUCK!”
The host-body gibbers and hoots, then knuckle-walks (knuckle-sprints, really) away, bullets plinking by his hands and feet. Oh my God. Kent Wayne’s life is in ruins. There’s no coming back from this. Not unless…
I reach deep into Kent Wayne’s psyche, grabbing hold of the concept known as Echo, and activate its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Time rewinds, and we’re all back in Kent Wayne’s bed, snoozing peacefully away. Before Cock n’ Balls can wake up, I stifle them with a parasympathetic restraint.
I have to do this like five times a day, minimum. Fuck my life.
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