I live a bit like a hermit, but I’m never lonely. If you engage in a hobby or activity that’s utterly engrossing, you know exactly what I mean. Take writing, for example—I’ve spent many a weekend staring at a word document for hours on end. That’s what it may LOOK like I’m doing, but it doesn’t tell the full story; my mind’s somewhere else, manipulating concepts like Tony Stark might toy with a comprehensively designed, fully interactive hologram: fast-forwarding, freeze-framing, zooming, rotating it on multiple axes…you get the idea.
I have my suspicions as to why I can write (I acquired the ability shortly after I began to emphasize brutal self-honesty) but on a day-to-day basis I pull ideas from multiple sources. One of them is dreams…
SOMEWHERE ON THE WESTERN EDGE OF SAN FRANCISCO, IN A HOMEY STUDIO FILLED WITH EMPTY MOUNTAIN DEW CANS AND PILES OF PIZZA BOXES…
“Going dream-side.” I grin at Bitefighter—my loyal buddy, 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire, 83rd level intellect—and throw him a double thumbs-up.
“Roofskies. Arf bark mcrowf.” (Don’t get crazy in there, you phallic-minded idiot). He returns my gesture, shooting me a thumbs-up with his furry little forepaws. My head hits the pillow and—
—I find myself in an aetheric wonderland filled with floating bat-symbols, steaks, and light-saber wielding dinosaurs. I hop onto a robotic centaur and we take off. As I gallop through empty space I wave at Bruce Lee, Gandalf, and some carnivorous rabbits that are maowing down on the entrails of a gasping hipster, who murmurs feeble pleas to the gods of irony as cute little beasties devour his scrotum.
All is well within the mind of Kent.
I lean forward in my saddle and say to my ride: “Let’s go check out the phrenic gardens; I need more ideas for ads and stories.”
Robot-centaur turns his head, meeting my gaze with a cyber-reddened eye. “NO PROBLEM, KENT WAYNE—ALWAYS A PLEASURE TO SHLEP YOU THROUGH YOUR CRAZY MADHOUSE OF A BRAIN!”
“Cool beans!” I sit up in my saddle and we continue onward, flying over the Palace of Elven Soccer Moms (the very pinnacle of spank bank material!) as well as a farm of Man Child piglets—a fenced-in pasture where little piggies (they’re piggies in all respects but one: my masked head protrudes from their shoulders) are free to run amuck amongst living action figures and rocket-powered bobble-heads.
A few minutes later, we reach the gardens. Floating above a long stretch of grass are rows upon rows of naked, disembodied asses. Every so often one will poop out a concept—usually some rudimentary form of cyborg or penis—and it skitters off into the wild, free to develop into whatever weird-ass idea that it’ll eventually grow into. But hold on…there’s a gaunt, shadowed figure running between the rumps, prodding at their assholes…
“HEY!” I yell. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” I hop off and robot-centaur gallops away.
The figure turns around and hunches in place, hissing viciously. Even through I’m a hundred yards away, I can see he’s wearing little spectacles and completely lacking in muscle tone. As I close the distance, a jolt of horrid recognition runs through my being.
“Grammar Nazi Prime!” I level a shaking finger at his testosterone-deprived form. “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!”
He straightens up, chuckling smugly. “You’re not the only one who’s mastered psychic locomotion; it was all too easy to break into your stunted mind. Now be a good half-wit and leave me alone; you don’t deserve to possess all this novelty.” He turns to the side and spits in disgust. “You who employ such odious claptrap like run-on sentences, or the passive voice.”
I wave my arms like Neo and sink into a wide-legged kung fu stance, both arms extended. “I will beat the brakes off you in psychogenic combat. You’d better get the fuck out or brain the fuck up, asshole, ’cause I’m about to rip your psyche into a million pieces.”
“Doubtful,” he sneers, then comes charging at me in a four-limbed gallop, snarling and spitting like a Bridezilla Gollum who’s deep in the throes of full-on Ring fever. “THESE CONCEPTS ARE MINE, WAYNE! YOU DON’T DESERVE THEM! RUAAAAAHHHH!!!!”
Grammar Nazi Prime spear-tackles my waist and we barrel-roll through the air. As we tumble and twist, I hit him with everything I’ve got, blitzing him with all the shit from my newest book—crystalline armor powered by a seven-mind gestalt, ten-armed wing chun thrown by a robotic reincarnation of a religious figurehead, an astral casino where immaterial beings gamble for concepts—but to no avail; he’s too damn strong. He shrugs my attacks off, reaches into his trousers, then thrusts his hand at my face, smearing a single finger under my nose, laying a greasy, horrid trail across my upper lip.
My world goes topsy-turvy. Nausea consumes my being. I stumble away coughing and gagging. Evil veins necrotize my light-woven thought-form, turning it black and brittle in a matter of seconds.
“What the—” *COUGH COUGH* “WHAT DID YOU PUT ON MY FACE, MOTHERFUCKER???”
Grammar Nazi Prime claps gleefully. “Red-ink smegma, my dear Kent! Enjoy my foreskin poison—I’ve been saving it for just this occasion! AHAHAHAHA!”
I drop to my knees, clutching my belly. My skin begins bubbling with pustules. They soon erupt with sickly grey worm-heads, all wearing Grammar Nazi Prime’s laughing visage. I feel the fibers of my thought-form start to unwind—I’ve only got a few more seconds before I completely discohere.
So I reach deep into my essence, tapping the reality-distorting concept known as Echo. Magic flash.
Purified blue begins flooding my thought-form, erasing the disgusting infection wrought by the red-ink smegma. Hallowed light begins leaking from my pores, bringing every line and contour of my body into blinding, glowing relief. I raise a hand toward the heavens, and an impossibly wide lightning bolt thunders down from the sky and into my palm, filling my being with psychic power. The wind from the discharge howls across the plains, causing Grammar Nazi Prime to step back and shield his eyes with his forearms.
I level a steady gaze at my sworn enemy. “You’re not the only one who can weaponize a penis—you’re out of your depth, fuckface.”
And before he can dematerialize I clutch the air, summoning a horde of cock—robotic, alien, reptilian, celestial—the coolest and weirdest kinds. They rear into the air and envelop Grammar Nazi Prime. Right before he disappears beneath a writhing tangle of tumescent dick, I hear his piteous, agonized scream:
“DAMN YOU KENT WAYNE! DAAAAAMMMMNNNN YOOOOOUUUuuuuuuu….”
Booyah! Kent Wayne’s a MASTER when it comes to dick-dueling! Nyahahaha! 😀
Has some uptight prick invaded your consciousness and tried to steal your ideas? 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
Hold on! I just got approved to be an Amazon affiliate! If you’re going to buy ANY product from Amazon, and you’d like to support my efforts for absolutely free, then simply click on one of the Echo links I’ve provided—they’ll send you to Echo’s Amazon page—and THEN buy whatever product you wish. Amazon gives me a small referral fee each time this happens! In this manner you can support my books, musings, upcoming podcast, zany ads, or my adventures along the noble path known as The Way of The Man Child WITHOUT spending any more money than you were already going to! Should you do this, I vow to send you a silent blessing, causing your genitals to adopt the optimum size, shape, smell, and death-ray attachment of choice that paralyzes your enemies with fear and envy! Entire worlds will bow before your nether parts! 😲💪 😜
#kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book