IN THE YEAR 2030, TINDER AND BUMBLE HAVE BEEN RAVAGED BY DOUCHE-BROS. AMIDST WAVES OF POPPED COLLARS AND PABST BLUE RIBBON BEER, ONE MAN STANDS AGAINST THE TREND-BORNE MADNESS…
“Kent Wayne! We’re fucking coming for you, brah!”
I run through a San Francisco alleyway, vaulting over a stack of old boxes and broken boards. My douche-bro pursuers stay hot on my tail, blurting outdated gangsta slang and exchanging elaborately thought-out, inside-joke handshakes. My brain reels from the overwhelming stink of clique-iness and tribalism. One of them starts to chant the refrain from Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” and the others pick it up. My God—could you get ANY more unoriginal?
I jump onto a brick wall, letting my momentum compress me into a tight ball of hunched limbs, then explode off it, turning mid-air and grabbing onto the bottom rung of a retracted fire escape. Hoots and gibbers sound from below as the douche-bros rush in, surrounding me as I muscle up onto a steel railing. Holy shit, that was a close one! I can’t believe I—
Then a hand grabs hold of my ankle and pulls me down. SHITFUCK!
I bounce off the hard cement, wincing in pain as the shock travels up my spine and steals my breath. When I open my eyes, I find myself looking up at dozens of popped-collars.
“We’re the kings of Tinder,” one of them declares. “Take your articulate, dumbass profile off it.”
“ ‘Articulate’ and ‘dumbass’ don’t really compliment each other,” I reply. “Maybe if you—”
He shoots an accusatory finger directly at my face. “HE’S ATTACKING US WITH LOGIC! FUCK HIS ASS UP!”
They surge forward, intent on ripping me limb from limb. No options left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
“There he is!” A woman’s voice sounds from high above.
The douche-bros stop in their tracks and look up. One of them ventures, “Mom?”
Soccer moms begin jumping down, landing in anime-style crouches, forming a protective perimeter around my prone form. They straighten up, leveling steady gazes at my would-be assailants.
“How are you, son?” the lead soccer mom asks. She scans the rest of the douche-bros with a steely gaze. “Connor. Blake. Hunter. Garret…and all the rest of you fuckheads with cloyingly suburban names. Kent Wayne is under our protection.”
“But…but…WHY?” the jerkoff named Connor stutters.
She dips her head and chuckles. “He’s the last guy on Tinder who isn’t a backwards-cap wearing asshole. He’s also got thick, upcurving genitals. Come on ladies,” she spins a finger by her head. “Time to adios.”
One of the soccer moms slings me over her shoulder. Another one drums my butt in a rapid-fire rhythm: pattapattapattaPAT! A third one makes 70s porn music noises with her mouth.
As they carry me off, I see angst-ridden douche-bros weeping into their hands. One of them stretches an arm out and screams, “Mom—don’t! MOM!”
I give ’em all a shit-eating grin. They say success is the best form of revenge, but I disagree.
I think the best form of revenge is having sex with someone’s mom. 😉
Are you being hunted by legions of inane, trend-bleating morons? 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 Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition #kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book