Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

For years, cybernetic augments have remained the stuff of rumors.  It’s only a matter of time before they make their way into our everyday lives.

So what’s the first augment YOU’D get?

“Kent Wayne!  Man Whore Kent Wayne!  Please—let me buy a copy of your book through ButtPay!”

I turn away from the beautiful soccer mom, and pull my booty shorts down.  She swipes a credit card through the crack of my ass, activating the magnetic reader I’ve got built into my buttcheeks.  A jackpot noise rings through the air—cha-CHING—letting everyone know that a transaction has been processed.

(I LOVE buttpay; as a kid, I always yearned to use ass-cracks as credit card readers—who says dreams can’t come true?  Ha HA!)

Another beautiful mom (this one’s a tennis mom; after years of romping with lusty cougars, I’ve developed a sixth sense about these things) runs up to me, her fists clenched gleefully up by her chin.  “Me next!  Me next!”

I perform a little curtsy which could accompany a phrase along the lines of “after you, milady,” straighten up, and face away.  As she swipes her credit card down my asscrack, I tense both of my squat-thickened cheeks, stopping the card in its tracks.  I look over my shoulder, noting her dismayed pout.

“Transaction…”  I relax my ass, and the credit card swipes the rest of the way through.  “Approved!”

Cha-CHING!  The tennis mom lets loose with a delighted squeal.  I hand her a copy of Echo and pat my butt, thanking the stars for the coolest credit card machine to ever grace the—

“Hey Kent.  I’ve got an augment too.”

I turn around and lock eyes with a pale, skinny dork who’s spent countless hours practicing his Serious Look.  All his clothes are from Hot Topic.  His complete lack of muscle-tone makes him a shoo-in for the always-funny nickname: “Skeletor.”

“I’m selling books, Emo-poet.”  I make a shooing gesture.  “Go away.”

A dark chuckle.  “I said:  I have an augment too.  It’s in the same place as yours.”

He bends over, drops trou, and spreads his naked buttcheeks.  I turn away but it doesn’t help; I’ve already caught a glimpse, and his asshole looks like a mutant tarantula.  (Jesus—it doesn’t MATTER if you’re a dude; keep that shit under control!)

A horrid, mechanical voice comes belching out from his cyborg asshole:  “THE UNDYING RETICLE, SIGHTING IN ON THE HUDDLED MASSES, YEARNING TO BE HARVESTED.”

“Oh Christ—BLUUUUUHHHHH!!!!”  I drop to my knees and clutch my stomach.  A river of bile and vomit comes pouring from my lips.  Bystanders scream and collapse, curling into quivering fetal positions.  They cover their ears but it’s no use; brains and blood leak from their heads and through their fingers.  From the corners of my tear-bleared eyes, I see dozens of trees wither and die.  Rows of shrubs crumble into brown, dry dust.

The asshole (literally and figuratively) continues bleating its soul-twisting nonsense:  “ALL HAIL MECHANISTIC CRASH-THROUGH.  INEVITABLE IS THE DYING LIGHT BEYOND PRESERVATIVES.”

The world hazes over and I try to gasp my last apologies:  I’m sorry for all those times I ate the last slice of pizza, for all those times I took the last square of toilet paper, the many instances when I boobytrapped my brother’s doorknob with boogers or dog poop…

But there’s one option left:  I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

Cyborg Hemingway—the top right quadrant of his skull is buzzing with glowing circuitry, his left arm is made of banded metal—leaps from a high-rise building, cracking the sidewalk as he lands in an anime-style crouch.  He assumes an old-timey boxing stance and begins throwing his hairy, whiskey-powered fists at Emo-poet, bludgeoning the idiot’s face and ass into a broken, pulpy mess.  Hemingway’s servos whine and snap as he taps his impressive reservoir of Buck Nuts Apeshit; he breaks bones and ruptures organs, consequently saving the world by cutting off the disgusting mind-vomit rocketing out from emo-poet’s butt.

When he’s finished, he rips off his shirt and chugs a flask of whiskey.  I see the hair growing on the tops of his shoulders and I think to myself:  holy shit—do NOT mess with hairy-shouldered guys!  (Somewhere in their ancestry, there was undoubtedly some Bigfoot-sex.)

“BRAAP!”  He belches loudly and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist.  He gives me a jaunty salute and bounds away, leaping dozens of feet into the air and kicking off a series of buildings.  His hairy-knuckled toes leave webs of cracks in the steely high-rises, just like he was the Incredible freakin’ Hulk.

There’s only one cure for emo-poetry:  a murderous, cybernetically augmented Ernest Hemingway.

 

Has some insecure mouth-breather accosted you with their insecurity-driven banality?  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

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