Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

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:

A protein-thrower.

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 

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

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7 thoughts on “Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

    • Haha thanks! I’m not a gun nut; all I know is the few pieces I got to handle in the service: carbines, sig sauer, along with the bigger crew-served stuff, although I did handle a beretta once. I’ve been eyeing the glock as my next zombie defense weapon because of its supposed reliability and ubiquitous 9mm cartridge, but tell me: isn’t it not supposed to have a safety? If it doesn’t have a safety AND it doesn’t have a hammer, what’s its safety mechanism? (Unless the hammer just doesn’t have a thumbable end and it still keeps pressure on the trigger after racking the slide and employing the decocker)

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  1. Also, pressing the barrel against something can move the slide back slightly, causing it to become “out of battery”, i.e. chamber with the bullet not shut completely. This prevents the gun from firing. Try revolvers.

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    • I’ve always had an affinity for the detective’s .38 special (LOVE detective noirs!) but I like the added stability you can get with a semi through the magpul shooting grip, which I doesn’t work with the revolver’s cylinder. Good point though—I’ve heard some SWAT fellas actually prefer revolvers when they enter a room, because people have grabbed the slides on their semis. Sounds crazy, but I’m not gonna question them.

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