“Blaze Leader, you are cleared hot for your attack run. Good luck and godspeed.”
“Thanks base. Blaze Leader out.”
I power down my warp drive and fire up my mixed-gas thrusters. My starfighter wing is about to conduct a desperate, last ditch assault on the evil Grammar Nazis, who’ve constructed a giant, mechanical death camp in the middle of space that resembles a twisted, ugly cock: all neck and no head, with a huge anteater-esque foreskin. (yep, I like to throw a juvenile, phallo-centric twist on things. What can I say? Male genitalia looks hilarious—like clueless sea creatures I feel would act exactly like the Minions from Despicable Me).
I bank my Sunfire Interceptor past some floating debris and punch the throttle, flying directly into the urethra of the evil dick. Turbolaser fire erupts on my flanks. Automated laser batteries track with my fighter, attempting to gun it down in the narrow trench. I have to go as fast as I can; it’s the only way I can prevent them from getting a lock on me.
Just like in the original movie, one of my wingmen is a larger dude. His name is even more ham-handed than the guy in the first movie (“Porkins,” for all you heathens that need a reminder). Instead of Red 6, his designation is Blaze 6.
“Blaze 6, stay tight on my tail. Keep an eye out for any snakes in the grass.”
“Roger that, Blaze Leader. So far it’s just turrets; I don’t see any—AAAGHH!!”
“Blaze 6?” I punch my dashboard, funneling power into my comms, trying to get a clearer signal. “Blaze 6, do you copy??? Enormo! ENORMO!”
(See? I can throw around unoriginal, stature-derived nicknames as well)
Enormo’s voice static-threaded voice crackles through my comms: “They…came from…BEHI—”
From the corner of my eye, I see his Interceptor spiral into the wall of the urethra, blasting apart in a cloud of flame.
My wingmen get picked off one by one. I barrel-roll and spin as best I can through a haze of merciless gunnery. One of the other wing commanders streaks ahead and deploys a pair of Dreis missiles. I hear his voice over comms—
—but they explode against the surface, failing to enter the vas deferens and trigger a chain reaction that’ll blow up the destructo-cock. The wing commander gets shot down by a defensive battery; his Interceptor crumbles apart in a cloud of glowing particulate.
I’m staring intently into my targeting computer when I hear Batman’s giant-sacked voice echoing through my mind:
“There are seven working attacks capable of taking down a destructo-cock. Assaulting the vas deferens is almost impossible…use your eReader, Kent. Use your eReader.”
My eReader…for a moment, the battle hazes out of focus and I glance sideways, ticking my eyes back and forth at nothing in particular. Then it hits me: of course! My eReader! I reach under my seat, grab it, and open it to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Hemingway, Stephen King, and Tolkien swoop in on my six, all piloting their own Interceptors. Grammar Nazi Prime’s bespectacled mug appears on my comms screen, snarling hatefully.
“You don’t have a chance, Wayne! Four Interceptors against a destructo-cock? I still have THOUSANDS of fighters ready to—”
Quadrants of my comms screen begin blinking open, dividing the monitor into a view of Grammar Nazi Prime, Hemingway, Stephen King, and Tolkien.
Hemingway’s in his cockpit, buttfucking Grammar Nazi Prime’s wife, and from her enthused moans, she’s clearly enjoying it. As he thrusts madly away, he takes a swig of whiskey, then pours the rest over his white-haired chest, shaking his head like he’s motor-boating boobs while making the appropriate noise with his mouth: “BLBLBLBLBLB!.” Stephen King’s munching on the exposed brains of Grammar Nazi Prime’s seven-year old boy (probably as research for his next fucked up story), while Tolkien is surrounded by Grammar Nazi’s full-grown children, both of whom are men in their twenties. He’s used his fantasy-based story-telling to lure them into a dream world of magic, and they’ve clearly gone full-on nerd; they’re issuing loud, discordant snort/laughs, and they’re clutching big ol’ fistfuls of twenty-sided dice.
Tolkien throws a shit-eating grin right into the camera. “We have your family, Grammar Nazi. Your wife appears to be enjoying the anal ministrations of wild man Ernest Hemingway; Mr. King seems to enjoy the taste of your children’s brains…and these two?” He flicks his eyes toward the braying dorks inside his cockpit. “I’ve turned them both into Dungeons and Dragons fanatics.”
He looks back at the camera, his grin widening a notch further.
“Virgins for life.”
Grammar Nazi Prime clutches the air, howling like Vader in the third shitty prequel: “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
A few seconds later, he calls off his fighters, giving me the leeway to fly right up to the vas deferens and deposit my missiles right in their ducts, triggering a chain reaction that blasts apart the heinous destructo-cock. As I fly away from the flaming wreckage, I expel a loud sigh of heartfelt relief. Whew! That was a close one!
The adventures of Kent Wayne—zany author, consummate Man Child, and starfighter pilot—continue! 😀
Are you the last line of defense between the nitpicky evil of Grammar Nazis and those rule-breaking stories which make your heart soar in your chest, regardless of whether or not they use sentence fragments or properly employ the Oxford fucking comma? 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