“I don’t belong here! LET ME OUT!” I pound the beta-amyloid glass lining my enclosure, but to no avail; there’s no way my hairy-knuckled dickbeaters are gonna set me free.
The year is 4030. A few months ago I was in the twenty-first century, getting ready for my afternoon repast (I’d just finished blessing a slice of pepperoni and mushroom with extra cheese), when a gang of robo-armored soccer moms emerged from a portal and tasered the fuck out of me. As I lay jiggling and shaking on the hardwood floor, one of them scooped me onto her shoulder, fitted my anus with a smell-good butt-plug (can’t say I blame her; Lovecraftian horrors have emerged from that hole after one too many spicy sausages), and carried me into their super sleek chrono-skipper. After micro-chipping my arm, they punched the throttle and jumped us 200 years into the future.
Now, I’m the feature exhibit at Oddity Zooworks: a freak show tailored exclusively for soccer moms. Apparently, in the twenty-second century, they used their indomitable mom-fury to subjugate all of humanity.
(I’ve always suspected that this could happen. Think about it: alpha AF soccer moms push forth a slimy little goo-thing from their nethers and raise it into something approximating a human. All the while, they’re juggling the demands of organic cooking, running a multibillion dollar corporation, twice-weekly hot yoga, thrice-weekly brazilian jiu-jitsu, crossfit wods, and catering to a yuppifed shadow of a man they’ve regretted marrying for the past couple decades. It only makes sense they would turn a collective eye toward world domination.)
One of the tour guides knocks on my enclosure, bending down and smiling brightly at me. “Keeee-ent…hey Kent! Hey little buddy—how you doing in there?”
These bastards know I’m just a simple-minded Man Whore—they KNOW it! I can’t help but revert to my natural state and prance agitatedly around on all fours, hooting and gibbering as I do so: “Ooh-hoo ooh-hoo ooh-hoo ook ook AWK!”
The guide straightens up and faces her tour group. “Kent here is our newest addition. Not only does he possess an aesthetically pleasing frame, his penis has won countless awards and been featured in multiple publications, including the most recent issue of ‘Womb-hammer Digest.’ Average length, perhaps, but it’s imbued with a mild, eye-catching earth-tone, extremely girthy, hard beyond measure, and best of all? The shaft angles upward, hitting the spot every time. We’ve seen ‘upcurves’ before, but throw in the qualities I’ve just mentioned, and the need for foreplay is virtually eliminated.”
A chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” ripple through the tour group. More than a few mumble “upcurve,” in a breathy whisper.
“We’ll keep him here until he’s an old, withered fart with old, withered balls,” the tour guide continues. “Allowing this whore to roam free would be far too risky; our biggest concern would be the loss of genetic diversity. Our simulations indicate with 99.568% certainty that he’d impregnate nearly every female within a 50-galaxy radius, both human AND alien—this man-slut has no standards whatsoever. Ensuing generations would be comprised entirely of half-siblings, and incest would threaten our intergalactic security.” Her voice turns serious. “We’d be facing a chromosomal catastrophe of epic proportions. By comparison, it would make Genghis Khan’s fuck-fest look as tame as a low-speed ride on the local merry-go-round. To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, let me regale you with an anecdote: our records indicate that after just a single weekend of glorious coitus, one of his partners found herself unable to orgasm through penetrative means. Her condition lasted for two full months.”
***True story, mwhahaha!***
Somber nods greet her announcement. One of the moms says, “It’s best left caged.” and the others mumble their assent.
“Exactly.” The tour guide nods. “That’s why we’ve added extra security measures to ensure that—”
She keeps talking, but I’m not listening; my mind is replaying that part where she said I was gonna be trapped here until my balls were old and withered. This is BULLSHIT, man! I’m not gonna be stuck in a goddamn future zoo where the only praise directed toward my junk are longing looks and polite claps! Fuck this noise!
So I reach into my booty shorts and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A directed-energy sniper round flashes toward my enclosure. Energy ripples across the glass, imbuing it with a brief sear of undulant radiance. A second later, the main panel melts into goo. Freedom! I dive through the hole and barrel through the tour group, all of whom lose their minds and clutch greedily at my shorts.
“Lemme see that upcurve!”
I manage to squirm free—they rip off my shorts and undies in the process—and I gallop through the zoo, my dangly bits bouncing in the wind. They act like a charged magnet; in a matter of seconds, I’m being chased by hundreds of soccer moms. I jump onto a cage where a mindless Justin Bieber is pacing back and forth and sniffing the floor, then use it like a springboard to—
—leap a few feet higher and grab a flagpole. I rotate around it in a full-body swing, then crouch on its length like a butt-nekkid gargoyle. It’ll take a few seconds for them to catch up; I take the opportunity to gnaw viciously into my right arm, chewing through flesh until I feel my teeth close around the microchip. I spit it out—PTOO!—and dive forward, hitting the roof of the gift shop and collapsing into a roll.
Standing on the roof is none other than Martha Stewart, folding a massive laser rifle into a graphene briefcase. Despite the centuries, she appears to be in her mid-thirties. My mouth drops open.
“M-m-Martha?” I stutter. “How…why…”
“After they jailed me for unleashing a giant, golden pterodactyl on the people of New York, I was escorted into the subterranean depths of Rikers, where government scientists flooded my body with a highly classified longevity serum. After my 121st birthday, I saw the error of my ways” She finishes disassembling her rifle, snaps the briefcase closed, then turns toward me.
“I’m sorry I used you like cheap Costco pie crust…come with me, Kent—we can make the world right again.” She extends a hand.
I reach trembling fingers out to touch it, then draw them quickly back; every time I’ve worked for Martha, she’s gone straight for my anus.
Then my eyes steel over and I take her hand. She flips me onto her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, leaps toward a line of Christmas lights, and uses them like a giant fast-rope. Sparks snap by our faces as her feet slide down the line, breaking off a brilliant scatter of plastic-encased diodes.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for Future Martha. Man Whore perpetuum! 😀
Have you been kidnapped by a vicious gang of time poachers? 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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