“KENT WAYNE! OPEN UP!”
I stagger up from my chair and hobble to the door, clicking my walker across the floor of my dorm at Abe Simpson Nursing Home. Even though I’d like to hurry, I can’t; I’m over a hundred years old.
“Hold your horses,” I wheeze. “I’m coming.”
I swing the door open and find myself staring at the panicked faces of the Soccer Mom Cadre. Back in 2058, I helped America’s Soccer Moms overthrow the existing political system and set up their own government. By and large, it was a good move; I appreciate the fact that all food is now certified organic and includes quinoa with every meal. (If you’re not a fan of the Container Store though, you might wanna live somewhere else.)
“What is it, President Soccer Mom?” My rheumy eyes tick across their beautiful faces and tight booby shirts. (Still got a little ammo left in my clip. Ha HA!)
President Soccer Mom clasps both my shoulders. “Kent…a global chill is sweeping the Earth. Cities are being flash-frozen in mere seconds. Years ago, you made a habit of saving hordes of people with your Man Whore powers. You need to do it again. For America. For the world.”
My yellowed eyes glance off to the side. “That was decades ago. I had to undergo surgery to reduce my magical genitals to a normal size, and more importantly, to a normal level of attractiveness. Too many women wanted my amazing sperm to surge through their insides. Top scientists said I was breeding too much—that if I continued, future generations would be at risk for incest, because I was the only guy the ladies wanted.” I look up and meet her eyes. “No one wants to fuck their half-sibling, and I get it; that’s some Game of Thrones shit.”
But despite my acknowledgement, tears slip down my cheeks; those were the glory days.
She shakes her head . “Kent, if we can’t tap the powers of your once-mighty penis, then we’re destined to die under a blanket of ice.”
I look out the window, and then I see it: A giant glacial wave, rolling across the entire skyline. The noise is horrendous—groaning thunder accented by cracks, like handfuls of twigs exploding in a campfire.
“Sword of Voltron…” I whisper.
“Do something, Kent!” She shakes my shoulders. “DO SOMETHING!”
No options left. I reach into my robe and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Arcane light envelops my pelvis, restoring my genitals to their former glory. I pull my ridonculously pendulous scrotum over myself and the Soccer Moms, like Batman yanking his cape up to shelter himself from a just-triggered bomb. Icy death rolls across us, but we manage to stay alive; my nutsack is as tough as mithril (and as tasty as Code Red Mountain Dew 😀 ).
President Soccer Mom has squinched her eyes shut, but now she cautiously opens them.
Her top aide grabs her by the arm. “Madam President, we estimate that over half the world was lost to the freeze. We need to start repopulating the Earth. Aggressively”
She nods grimly and locks eyes with me. “Let me taste your gloriously thick, upcurved penis. This is a matter of national security, Kent.”
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