My name is Kindalo Wenlythia. I’m an aetheric manifestation of a level 5 Benevolence. In layman’s terms, I’m Kent Wayne’s guardian angel.
You know what other guardian angels do? I’ll tell you what they DON’T do—they don’t worry about their charges prostituting themselves to legions of soccer moms, or backstroking through a pool of vaseline dressed in little more than “Christmas Pants.” They don’t worry about their humans going buck nuts after eating a cheeba chew and tear-assing through the streets of San Francisco in a weaponized dumpster. Yeah—all that stuff’s par for the course when you’re assigned to Kent Wayne.
Right now I’m hovering over him as he’s singing along to Taylor Swift, biking through Golden Gate park dressed in a bowtie and booty shorts. Every so often he gibbers like a chimp, because he loves hairy, dirty, insanely strong primates. (Big surprise, right?) There he goes, hooting and gibbering like a fuckfaced ape-man, farting up a storm, but wait…shit. He’s just talked smack about Downton Abbey in earshot of some tennis moms. Oh no—they’ve stopped their game and they’re yelling at him…he’s yelling back…don’t give them the finger, Kent…what the fuck are you—
One of the soccer moms lobs a ball, then arcs her racket mercilessly down at it, sending a deadly green sphere labeled “Yonex” directly into Kent’s sternum. He yelps with pain and clutches his chest, dropping from his bike like he’s just been shot by a .50 caliber Barrett round.
I swoop down, just in time to see another tennis ball smack him in the right buttock, paralyzing his leg. He collapses onto the trail, moaning like a little bitch.
I enter his etheromorphic skin through the opening on his sixth chakra, and coax his body into releasing an extra surge of adrenaline. He jumps to his feet, screaming something asinine like “Dark Knight save me!” and staggers over to his bike, chased by a horde of tennis balls that pop and snap off the rough surface of the asphalt trail. He clambers onto his bike and begins pedaling away. Tennis balls splinter the nearby trees, and dig up rough divots in the surrounding greenery. Pathetic mewls erupt from Kent as he wheezes and snivels.
“No one talks shit about Downton Abbey!” one of the tennis moms screams. “NO ONE!”
Green thunder rockets into Kent’s sacrum, and he goes down like that dude in Platoon, shaking and jerking as dozens of tennis balls blast him in the organs. He’s about to die an ignominious death—torn apart by a fuzzy green barrage.
Not gonna happen. I psychically guide his hand to reach into his pocket and open his eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The tennis moms’ adderall-crazed kids storm the park, voicing their affluenza by screaming for better mini-TVs in their SUVs, as well as the latest iPads. The tennis moms clutch their skulls and drop to their knees, assaulted by a barrage of hip lingo such as “basic,” “on fleek,” and “ridic.” Their heads begin exploding one after the other, coating the court in a slick layer of brains and ichor. In the madness of this tween-speak, Kent Wayne makes his escape. I breathe a sigh of relief.
You think you have a tough job? Try being the guardian angel of a sci-fi author/male prostitute/idiot Man Child.
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