A CORRESPONDENCE FROM TWO MONTHS AGO:
DEAR ABBY: I laugh at your ill-conceived attempts to drag the 1950s paradigm of a village wise person into the twenty-first century. Humanity is undergoing a collective renaissance, one in which we need not defer to your velvet-cloaked gauntlet. We will find our own way; interconnectivity will keep expanding, pushing you further and further into the shadow of your own ignorance—a dark nether-realm in which you so rightly belong.
DEAR KENT: We are coming for you. Our hunter/killer teams will soon darken your doorstep, and we will take you apart, organ by organ.
I’ve been in hiding for two months, moving from safe house to safe house under cover of darkness. FDAB (The Forces of Dear Abbey) have been nothing short of merciless; they’ve hounded me using a vast array of spy satellites, surveillance operatives, and assassination teams of varying size and capability. Last night it was laser-slinging spider-drones. Today it’s armored storm-troopers.
“AAAAAAHHH!!!” My hands chop the air as I sprint full-speed down the street. I’m clad in my Man Child attire: mask, booty shorts, and a bow tie. Automatic rifle fire stutters behind me, plinking off the pavement and carving jagged divots into the walls of San Francisco architecture. I duck into a nearby alleyway and curl into a fetal position, momentarily overcome by the ball-shriveling stress.
I’d like to fight back, but every attempt I’ve made has been soundly defeated. None of my usual tools for defusing conflict—twerking, cawing like a chicken, dropping my badonkadonk to some imaginary beats from the dirty south—have worked. FDAB doesn’t take kindly to lippy Man Whores.
So I hug my knees and fight the urge to cry, muttering a prayer under my breath: “Dear Batman who art in Gotham—you who swing from rooftop to rooftop on your cool-ass grapnel and slay mountains of pussy in between bouts of punching evil in its fucking face…”
Stormtroopers pie around the entrance of the alley, zeroing their sights on me with steady, professional sweeps. No options left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The dumpster to my left begins to transform, folding in on itself in a series of mechanized pivots. It raises a few feet up as treads form beneath its base. Side-mounted thrusters protrude from its flanks, spurting tiny bits of flame as they engage in preliminary test ignitions. A bubbled cockpit arises from its top—in its center is the doggle-wearing visage of my intrepid friend and Buddy for Life:
Bitefighter: 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire, 83rd level intellect, and badass mutt.
Muzzles swing toward the Bitemobile, and the whine of servos fill the air. As Bitefighter guns the throttle and rockets forward, the stormtroopers open fire, sparking rounds off armored hull-plates. Bitefighter rockets past and I dart a hand out, grabbing onto one of the Bitemobile’s side-ladders, my legs flying up behind me from the sheer force of the vehicular acceleration. The Bitemobile cuts a sharp right out of the alley, firing its side-mounted thrusters in order to counterbalance its weight and keep the centrifugal force from tipping us over.
“ARF ROOF MCBARKO!” Bitefighter shouts from his cockpit. (What the fuck did you do, Man Whore? How did you manage to piss off yet another horde of heavily armed fascists?)
“I’LL TELL YOU LATER!” I scream over the howling slipstream. I clamber onto the top of the dumpster/escape vehicle, holding tightly onto metal handgrips that’ve been welded onto its upper surface. “GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”
Behind us, a wing of gunships crest the skyline, letting loose with a thunderous barrage of lethal ordnance. Foot-long rounds stitch the pavement to the either side, chewing up the San Francisco blacktop. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a Honda Accord crumple beneath the merciless weight of oncoming cannon-fire. In the span of a second, it’s reduced from a proud, gleaming conveyance into an ugly mess of wrinkled jags.
“CAN’T THIS THING GO ANY FASTER?” I yell.
Bitefighter doesn’t reply—not verbally, anyways. His tiny lips peel back in a ferocious grin, and his little forepaws work his holographic dashboard with lightning-quick jabs. He pulls down on a light-woven lever and the Bitemobile begins shuddering—vibrating like Martha Stewart’s state-of-the-art dildo, ready to celebrate her newest billion she just acquired from another round of insider trading.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” I scream. “WHAT THE HELL IS—”
The Bitemobile winks out of existence, folding into the deepest reaches of space and time. Bitefighter’s just activated the Bitemobile’s newest addition: the tesseract engine. I catch a brief impression of a color-lined tunnel, whirling madly as incomprehensible beings loom over us from just outside its boundaries. Then—
We’re both sitting atop robo-dactyls, coasting the warm thermals of an alien weather system. A purple sky stretches before us, and hundreds of feet below, I see elven soccer moms waving at me, throwing me warm, lusty smiles.
The Enchanted Booty Forest. I always knew it was real!
I lean across my robo-dactyl and hold my hand up. Bitefighter gives me a mustachioed grin and smacks my outstretched palm with his padded little claws, giving me a much-welcome high-five.
Ha HA! Eat my ass, Dear Abby! The adventures of Kent Wayne and Bitefighter continue! 😀
Have you accidentally pissed off a cultural icon, and are now fleeing her dystopic war hordes? 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! 😲💪 😜
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