“There you go,” Steven Seagal deadpans. “Now you’re going to be a 37th level ninja/wizard/black-ops X-wing pilot.”
“AAAAHHH!!” I scream, falling out of bed and clutching at my eyes. “YOU JIZZED ON MY FACE, MAN! WHAT THE FUCK!!!”
He finishes buckling his pants. “Quit crying—you were sleeping when I did it.”
“Oh you motherfucking—AAAAAHHHH!!!!”
I can feel syphilis, gonorrhea, and a rare form of hyper-potent ebola burrowing through the pores of my skin, infecting it with Steven Seagal’s unique brand of martial arts crazy. It feels like my mind is being force-incepted with thought-patterns from the Joker, Carrot Top, and the clown from It.
“Anyways.” Steven clips on a jetpack decorated with the faces of all three Power Puff Girls. “I have to take my afternoon bath in a swimming pool full of fruit loops and vaseline, then I’m gonna grope a cast-iron statue of myself as i suck a katana handle.”
“JESUS!” I scream. “WHY ARE YOU SO—”
“The nineties were crazy, bro.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Fake martial arts plus nineties crazy…haDOOOken!” He flails his arms around and punches them out like he’s throwing a chi fireball. Then he straightens up and gives me the peace sign. “It’s been real.”
As he rockets away on his Power Puff jetpack I clench my teeth, fighting off his evil sperm with every ounce of my will. There’s no way I’m letting this fucker spackle my face, neck, and chest without consequence.
So I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A denim-clad jet bursts from the clouds, barrel-rolling through the sky while blasting out eighties music from its ginormous speakers. I hear snippets of Journey, Survivor, and the Top Gun Anthem as it screams toward Seagal.
His eyes widen in astonishment as Chuck Norris leaps from the cockpit and roundhouse kicks the back of the jet, sending it spinning at Steven’s shocked face. Steven and the jet explode into a spectacular fireball. As Chuck flies toward the ground, clad in a shirtless denim vest and uber-tight jeans, he spread eagles his limbs, slowing his fall. When he’s a hundred feet up, he starts roundhouse kicking the ground, creating a hurricane that slows him even further. After he touches down he claps his hands, dusting them off, and gives me a steely-eyed stare.
My mouth drops open. “Roundhouse kicks can make hurricanes?”
He chuckles softly. “The question you should be asking yourself is: what CAN’T roundhouse kicks do?” Then he gives me a wink and a thumbs-up. He runs off into the sunset, morphing into an eagle that’s patterned like the American flag.
That was awesome. Weird…but awesome! 😀
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