Oh man, I’ve been studying this accounting final for the last few weeks. I’m a few minutes late, but that’s okay; my professor allows tardy students to take exams.
As I walk up to the classroom, a shiver of dread runs down my backside. Through the door, I can hear dozens of students retching and hurling. Jesus! How bad IS this test?
I open the door and flinch back; the odor of human feces hits me in the face like a Conor Mcgregor left cross…if Conor smeared his glove with fermented dog balls that had been dipped in stale assholes. Professor Snerdbert (perfect name for an accounting professor, isn’t it?) greets me at the door, hands clasped politely in front of his waist.
“Hello, Kent. Ready for your exam?”
“Oh God,” I gasp, pinching my nose and waving the air. “What IS THAT?”
He glances over his shoulder, then back at me. “The smell?” A dismissive wave. “Oh that’s the final. People make a big deal over the CPA exam, but that’s not how you really earn your stripes if you want to be an accountant.”
“Uh…” I wipe tears from my eyes, trying not to vomit. “So how do I earn my stripes, then?”
His grin widens. “You have to eat a bowl of shit. No water. We call it: ‘raw dog outhouse style.’ ”
“NO!” I turn to flee, but in my weakened state, I’m all too easy to trip and pin.
“Let it happen,” Snerdbert breathes into my ear. “It’ll prepare you for mind-numbing office work, as well as the slow neutering of your soul through decades of politically correct passive-aggressivity and Corporati politics.”
“No,” I sob. “NO!”
The other students—now full-fledged poop-eating zombies—shamble toward us, pawing at my limbs with horrid, accounting-loving fingers.
No options left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Blazing magic encircles my right hand. I look down and see a light-woven length sectioning out from my fist. Professor Snerdbert leaps off me as if he’s just been splashed with scalding hot water. I stagger to my feet, gazing in wonder at the magical weapon forming from my fingers.
It’s a longsword made of ribeye steaks, comic books, and ninja action figures. The crosspiece is a stylized Bat-symbol.
As the poop zombies snarl and rush me, the Lord of the Rings theme trumpets through the air. I start swinging and stabbing, laying low hordes of foul zombielings, eviscerating them with my weaponized manifestation of testosterone, novelty, and Nomskies. In a few minutes, they’re all dead.
I stick two fingers into my mouth, and whistle loudly. The cyborg velociraptor warrior known as Grimscar scuttles up to my side, and I jump onto his back. We charge through the halls of my deadened university, screaming in defiant joy.
All hail poop-zombie slayer Kent Wayne, and his noble velociraptor-steed Grimscar!
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