I’m lying in a pile of mostly naked men, dressed in nothing but a bow tie and booty shorts, willing myself to be as still as possible. Martha Stewart dances her dildo-sword from buttcheek to buttcheek, causing A-list celebrities and titans of industry to cringe in fear.
She taps Elon Musk with the mushroom-tip, and he lets out a frightened gasp.
Chris Hemsworth flinches. “Ah!”
George Clooney inhales sharply.
“Mo. Who’s gonna scream: ‘No, Martha, no?’ ”
She continues tapping, making sure Ryan Reynolds, Joe Manganiello, and various other handsome, successful men tremble beneath the prospect of being used like cheap Costco pie crust. I’m deep in the throes of meditation; my heart rate has lowered to five beats per minute. If I can keep playing dead, she’ll have no idea I’m even here. She’ll pick one of the others if I can just keep from—
—farting myself awake. GodDAMMIT!
Her head snaps toward me, her eyes lighting with glee. “Kent Wayne! You’re highly trained in ancient mystical practices…and yet you STILL can’t control your sleep-induced flatulence! Moisten those butt lips and GET OVER HERE, MAN WHORE!”
Oh SHIT! I scrabble away on all fours, hooting and gibbering as I revert to my Man Child state. She uses her Food Network magicks to levitate toward me, legs straightened, toes pointed down, her arms diagonally out to either side. Cold moonlight glances off her dildo-claymore, and a wave of dread roils through my belly.
No options left. I reach into a secret compartment in my booty shorts, withdraw my eReader, and open it to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Gandalf, Yoda, Neo, Elrond, and various other godlings materialize in front of Martha. She shrieks in fury and begins mowing them down, combining prison-based martial arts, dark wizardry, and Suburban Lady Fury into an unstoppable maelstrom of hand-to-hand combat.
Superman grabs both her wrists but she presses forward, bowing him down to one knee. Eldritch power erupts from their struggle. I squeal in fright, and bring a forearm up to shield my eyes from the incandescent shitstorm.
“Get out of here Kent!” he gasps. “Can’t…hold her…much…longer…”
She pummels him with vicious headbutts, her pupils blazing with necromantic light. His eyes roll back with each hit. In a matter of seconds, his nose is a bloody mess of pulped cartilage.
I run away, blubbering and crying like a five year old schoolgirl. I just wanted to shake my booty and earn a few singles—that’s why I hired on with her; I didn’t do it to experience an undying rage which knows no bounds.
Her cupcakes are delicious, but dear God—at what cost?
At. WHAT. COST???
*theme music from Requiem for a Dream*
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