“Go long, Scorponok!”
I slash my arm through the air, sending a football spiraling toward my son. At the same time, my wife yells from the window, “STOP CALLING HIM THAT! HIS NAME IS TRAVIS!”
Scorponok catches the football in a leaping dive, his ten-year-old arms hugging it to his chest. He hits the ground and bounces up to his feet. I run over to him and ruffle his hair, laughing with pride. He laughs right along with me and hugs my waist.
“You’re the best, dad!”
“I know son—I know.” I kiss the top of his head. “And you’re second best, because there’s no being on Earth who can match my superior intellect and unparalleled virility!”
“Yay!” He thrusts both arms up in a triumphant gesture. “Let’s go eat pizza and drink mountain dew!”
“You read my mind—let’s!”
We race toward the house, our minds set on gobbling melty-cheese slices of pepperoni, mushrooms, then washing it all down with a variety of ambrosias which some deign to call: “mountain dew.” As we kick our shoes off in the foyer, my wife Irma appears before us, standing squarely in the kitchen doorway with her hands set firmly on her hips.
“Where do you two think you’re going? Kent, you still have to facilitate tonight’s PTA meeting, and Travis still has to do his homework.”
At the same time I blurt, “Like hell! There’s no way I’m going to run a conversation with a bunch of SUV-piloting mouth-breathers!” Travis nods eagerly and says, “Absolutely, Mom! My latest assignment is to make poems where I splash the page with my own tears to add a visceral punch to my creative writing!”
I turn slowly toward him, my eyes widening in horror. “What did you say?” I whisper.
“You heard what he said!” Irma snaps. “Get in a suit and tie—you’re going to be late!”
I ignore her and hunker down, locking my gaze onto my son’s. I grasp both his shoulders and give them a firm squeeze. “You’re name’s not Travis, son—it’s Scorponok. And you don’t write poetry.”
My son throws his head back, and lets loose with shrill, maniacal laughter. “Oh Dad—you’re so silly! I’m not Scorponok! I’m Travis! Or Hayden! Or Blake! Or any number of diarrhea-inducing suburbanized names! Ha ha! Hahaha!”
His voice grows thick with double-toned bass and he clutches the air with both hands. “Ahahaha! Aha—aha—AHAHAHAHA! RUAAAAHHHHHH!!!! BOW BEFORE EMO POETRY!!!!”
His flesh erupts with green pustules and thick cables of rippling muscles. As drool slavers from his lips, his jaw grows to twice its size, and the top of his head becomes a beady-eyed, wrinkled atrocity, fixed atop a beastly rictus. I stumble back in shock and see that Irma’s undergoing a similar transformation: she’s hunching in place, quivering and tittering, morphing into something that looks like a multi-headed slug with two-foot long fangs and glowing red orbs for eyes.
“AAAAH! AAAAH! AAAAH!” I scrabble back on my butt and hands, staring in utter horror at my picket-fence-enclosed family; they’ve just turned into a pair of monsters from my worst nightmares.
So I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I blink dazedly as the virtual-reality helmet lifts off my head. I rip free of my restraints and stagger to my feet. Through tear-bleared eyes, I see lab-coated emo-poets scurrying to and fro, gabbling in panicked bursts.
“Goddammit Taylor—did you give him the right dosage?”
“I checked the calculations three times! And my name’s Star Froth, asshole, I’ve told you a billion times alrea—”
“Stop bickering, you two! Do your jobs and—”
I try to say “What did you do to me?” but it comes out as a bedraggled mumble: “Whuuhdootoom?”
“Oh SHIT!” One of them starts toward me, turning to his companions and yelling, “Put him back under before he—”
“FUCK YOU!” As the hot-topic clad whiner closes the distance, I uppercut him squarely beneath the jaw. His knees go weak and he collapses to the floor. The others voice panicked gibbers as I reel towards a windowed wall, shielding my face with my right elbow.
An instant later I crash through the glass and there’s a heart-stopping moment of peaceful silence…then I begin to accelerate downward, hurtling past pane after pane of high-rise glass. The wind screams by my ears as I tumble and spin.
I’m a hundred stories up; in another few seconds, I’m gonna be street pizza.
But don’t count me out—there’s one thing I have that these emo-poet fucksticks could never even DREAM of.
I undo my belt and fumble with my fly, kicking off my pants with a frantic jerk of my legs. As they get ripped away by the furious slipstream, I reach beneath me and—
—grab hold of my giant ballsack, pulling it taut above my head so that it billows open into a giant parasail. I steady my trajectory with a few judicious tugs of my pubes (gotta remember to trim those, heheheh—just ignore that for now) and cut a brisk path through the clear sunny blue, cackling madly and giving the emo-poets—still standing at the lip of the broken window—a heartfelt raspberry: THBBBHTPPPHT!
You wanna trap me in a virtual hell atop a gleaming tower made of glass and steel? You’d better keep me from escaping on my scrotal parasail, mofos! Ha HA!
The adventures of Kent Wayne—sci fi author, Man Whore, and nutsack adventurer—continue! 😀
Are sexless vampire wannabes trying to fool you into thinking you’re meant to be some kind of repressed half-wit, marching in time with society’s bunk-ass drumbeat? 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 I’m also starting a podcast: Logical Idiots! If you want to check out the trailer, see it here: Logical Idiots Trailer and help two complete morons out by subscribing, liking, and commenting! 🙂 🙂 😀
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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