“Mr. Wayne. How are you today? Please—” my balding accounting professor, Mr. Snerdbert, gestures at the chair across from his desk with an open hand, “—take a seat.”
I scoot the chair in and sit down. “Thanks Mr. Snerdbert. What did you want to see me about?”
He steeples his fingers in front of his chinless mouth. “I wanted to ask you…what comes to mind when you’re deep in the throes of furious masturbation?”
I arch an eyebrow. “EXCUSE ME???”
“You see…” His hands fall away from his face, and he looks up and left, brow wrinkled as if he’s contemplating something of great import. “There are specific things a good accountant thinks about when they’re flogging their hog.” He locks eyes with me. “FIFO. LIFO. Accounts payable, balance sheets, price-to-earning ratio…do you understand what I’m getting at?”
I rise from my seat. “Um, I’m gonna go, Mr. Snerdbert…and change my major. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
He reaches into a cabinet, takes out a .44 magnum, and thunks it onto the surface of his desk.
“SIT. DOWN. MR. WAYNE.”
The doors burst open and flood of my fellow accounting students, all clad in pinstripe shirts and wielding some kind of assault rifle, march in and form a slightly-less-than-semicircular perimeter around me, ensuring that they won’t catch each other in a crossfire. Dozens of holo-sights dial in on my torso. A few of them paint me with visible lasers, purely for intimidation purposes.
Mr. Snerdbert leans back in his seat, grinning. “So you see, Kent, you’re going have to undergo our accountant indoctrination, so that you too will be sexually aroused in the same manner as the rest of us shrivel-souled eunuchs. Your testicles are far too large and unacceptably pendulous; they need to be nice and vestigial, like ours.”
My eyes tick tensely across the room, cataloguing escape routes, cover, concealment, and weapons.
Mr. Snerdbert snaps his fingers. “Bring in the Numbskull.”
One of his peons wheels in a reclining chair with a savage-looking helmet affixed to it; the thing’s got Clockwork Orange-style eye-spreaders, along with a variety of long, dripping needles which I’m guessing insert directly into my brain. I have no doubt they possess the odious ability to plunge me into a chemically-induced, asset and liability filled nightmare.
Snerdbert grins maliciously, and his voice lowers to a Palpatine-esque croak: “The writer in you will be crushed and Kent Wayne will be one of us.”
Instead of losing my shit like Luke did when Vader mentioned Leia (bet he wouldn’t have freaked out if he hadn’t kissed her, the dirty sister-kisser), I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A 5 lb. kettlebell appears in my hand, and these fitness-averse fucks instinctively cringe back, like vampires before a cross.
“AAAAHHH!!!” Snerdbert screams, shielding his face with his fingers. The rest of the accountants stagger drunkenly in place, losing their muzzle discipline and relinquishing their cheek welds. I raise my other hand, which now contains a fistful of protein powder, and blow a funnel of high quality amino acids into the air like a professional firebreather. Legions of nerds burst into flames and flail across the room, screaming that it’s too much, too much—for the love of God someone produce a spreadsheet to lower their testosterone and nullify this protein! Then they go apeshit, unleashing full-auto bursts and hosing down the walls with 5.56 or 7.62.
I sprint toward the window, rounds cracking by my feet in sparking flashes. I shield my face with my elbow, crash through the glass, and—
—dive into a tree, banging my way down onto the main campus quad, tucking and rolling up to my feet. I keep sprinting—my eyes wide, my mouth hanging open in a giant, shit-eating smile.
The adventures of your favorite author (and perennial Man Child) Kent Wayne continue! 😀
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