It’s not every day your final exam entails a Glock being firmly pressed against your right temple.
The hammer clicks back, and my professor orders, “Go on, Kent—do it.”
Today is the day I take my accounting final. You may associate accounting with consummate nerdery, but there are dark secrets buried betwixt the crevices of innocuously named concepts like “loan amortization” or “FIFO” and “LIFO.” If they were revealed to the world, they’d tear through the very fabric of civilization. Right now, I’m facing one of them.
“A perfect replica of Bigfoot’s asshole. Clean it with your tongue. Now.” The muzzle pushes harder into my skull. My Adam’s Apple works up and down in a pained gulp.
“Professor, I don’t understand why we—”
“—have to do this?” My professor’s shoulders shake with a dark, harsh laugh. “This is a walk in the park compared to what’s in store for you, Kent. Decade after decade of toiling away inside a lightless office. You’ll be surrounded by men whose erections have turned soft and sponge-like, and whose critical thinking has been stripped away by years of politically correct, Corperati narrow-think. Your only reprieve will be the shitty happy hour at the local TGIFs, where you’ll force a smile and clutch a laughably trendy drink between your sun-deprived fingers, trying to ignore the small but steady stream of internal fluids that leak from your anus. The best part is, eating Bigfoot’s asshole isn’t even the hardest portion of your exam.”
“Then what is?” I whisper. My eyes settle on the hairy, unkempt butthole poking up from my desk.
He leans close, bringing his sicko face close to my ear. “We know all about your writing, Wayne. In the other room, there’s a roomful of angsty emo-poets waiting to fill you with their disgusting emo-sperm. You’re gonna give birth to a smeg-faced piss-artist who constantly bemoans the fact that metrosexual vampires aren’t actually a real thing. What do you say to THAT?”
“I say…” I take a deep breath, and take a moment to send a brief, silent prayer to Batman.
“I say: FUCK YOU!”
Then I reach into my pants and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I dive forward as the professor fires. My ears ring with a steady EEEE as the bullet steals my hearing with a loud BANG while carving a furrow into my hair. As I hit the deck, I feel twin tanks forming on my back. A thick, alloyed hose leads from their bottom towards my hands, which are now holding one of the most feared weapons known to any accountant, emo-poet, or hipster:
I level the wand at my professor and press the trigger. A stream of powder ejects from the thrower, enveloping him in a fine mist of amino acids. As he screams in agony and makes a run for the window, I swivel in place, keeping him lined up in my sights and pouring it on. He crashes through the glass and almost escapes, but before he can leap into the courtyard, his skull spontaneously detonates. His headless corpse lays draped across the sill, pouring blood from its ragged neck-stump.
The door to the adjacent room bursts open and emo-poets flood in. They stop short when they realize what I’m holding in my hands.
“That’s right bitches,” I rasp in a take-no-shit growl. “Hope you’re ready for some Optimum Nutrition—banana fucking cream.”
Their eyes widen. One of them raises his hands and says, “Now hold on just a—”
FWSSHHHH!!!! I press the trigger, and chaos erupts. Dozens of emo-poets burst into flames, filling the air with agonized howls. My lips peel back in a savage grin, my grime-smeared face lit by the cherry-red light of burning dickheads.
Are modern society’s brainwashed drone-agents trying to civilize you? Perhaps you need a protein-thrower. 😉
There ARE alternatives to dying slowly inside from a necessity-fueled job! 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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