FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO:
“Twerk that food, Kent! TWERK IT!”
My butt humps up and down as I twerk a platter of caviar charcuterie toward Martha Stewart’s diamond-crusted throne. Each bounce has to be carefully managed; bounce too little and I can’t cover distance. Bounce too hard and—
CLANG CLA-CLANG CLANG!
—the food will fly off my ass and onto the floor. FUCK!
Martha slams an angry fist against her gilded armrest, which is capped by the grinning skulls of long-dead enemies. “IMBECILE! WHORE!”
She sticks two fingers into her mouth and whistles loudly. Steven Seagal comes trundling out from behind her throne, dressed in nothing but shades, kung-fu armbands, and sumo wrestler underwear. He presses his hands together and bows to Martha, his hair-swathed belly jiggling briefly as it laps over his waistband.
“Namaste. What is your wish, mistress?”
She levels a quivering finger at me. “KILL HIM WITH YOUR FORESKIN!”
He straightens up. “Should I garrote him with it, or smother him?”
She lowers her chin, fixing her smoldering eyes onto mine. “Whichever way causes the most suffering.”
“MARTHA PLEASE!” I drop to my knees and beg like an oppressed peasant, hands clutched together in front of my chest.
“C’mere little piggy!” Steven Seagal declares in his cool-guy rasp. He tromps toward me, undoing his underwear and licking his lips.
“No—NO!” I shoot to my feet and start running.
Since crashing through her palace’s east-side window, I haven’t had time to tend to my injury; there’s a clear trail of blood marking my passage. I’m about to fix that; I’ve knocked out one of her guards with my giant dickhead, used his leatherman to open a shotgun round, and sprinkled the gunpowder onto the ugly gash running down the side of my arm. He’s also got a zippo, which I now light and—
—bring close to the powder. A hot flash flares up from my skin, cauterizing the flesh. Had to be done; it wasn’t just a matter of hiding my tracks—I was bleeding profusely, and was starting to get dizzy.
I cut a strip of jacket from the unconscious guard, clench one end between my teeth, then wrap the other end around the wound. I’m about to secure it with a double square knot when a pair of hands grab the back of my skull and slam my face against a disgusting patch of facial hair.
Within Steven Seagal’s gross-ass neckbeard, I feel the shells of popped zits, old bits of Tombstone pizza, and powdery balls of caked-together Cheeto dust.
“Let it happen,” Steven murmurs. “It smells kinda good, once you get used to it.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. (if this is his neck-beard, how bad is his FORESKIN?) I once thought that being eaten by ants—like the dude with the glasses in that one Macgyver episode—was the worst way to go, but I’ve changed my mind; it’s kiddie stuff compared to this.
So I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
“Not gonna happen, terrorist!” Chuck Norris jumps out of a plane without a parachute, using his magic roundhouse kick to strike the ground at the exact right moment so he bounces off the earth without going splat. Mid-leap, he transitions into a triple-lutz quadruple-somersault wheel-kick. A denim-clad leg comes arcing around, smacking Steven Seagal squarely in his fourteenth neck-jowl.
“AHHHHH!!!!!” As Seagal stumbles away I scramble back on my butt and hands, gasping and coughing.
Steven executes some hokey Tai Chi arm waves, then raises his hands in tandem with his right leg, adopting a fake-ass one-legged martial arts stance. “Walk away, Charles—this doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t!” Chuck lifts up the front section of his beard, revealing a meticulously dyed section of under-beard. It’s emblazoned with a tiny American flag.
Steven narrows his eyes. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Chuck puts his hands on his hips and throws his head back, roaring with laughter. “Figures—wouldn’t expect a terrorist to understand!” He flicks his eyes at me. “Kent here is what America needs! Hard working, creative…plus he’s got a big ol’ schlong!” He looks back at Steven. “So keep yer’ molesty foreskin to yerself, you goddamn pinko commie hippie!”
Steven Seagal charges forward, screaming something that sounds vaguely Japanese (I instantly recognize it as nonsensical gabble). Chuck spits on the ground, yells, “Merca!” and runs forward to meet the charge.
I take the opportunity to flee like a bitch, tears streaming from my traumatized eyes. There’s a huge difference between standing your ground…and committing suicide.
No one should have to face Steven Seagal’s neck-beard—no one.
*Theme for Requiem for a Dream*
Are you being hunted by the most disgusting action star ever? 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
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