Tears spill down my cheeks as I do my best to sway seductively back and forth, clad in nothing but a skimpy tutu. Martha Stewart sits on her throne of polished femurs, tenting her fingers above her chest as I attempt to exectue my best imitation of Marilyn Monroe’s happy birthday serenade.
She circles her hand by her ear, nodding impatiently. It’s the signal for: Come on, Kent—show me the goods. I can’t help but weep in quiet, muffled sobs as I face away, bend over, and spread both cheeks. She starts throwing bits of popcorn at my starfish.
“You know what happens if you don’t catch one,” she warns. “Better get one this time, you dirty Man Whore you!”
I DO know what happens—if I happen to fail at her sadistic game, she’ll use her penile weaponry on my exposed poop chute. She usually gives me a running start, but still; she never fails to harpoon my butthole, reel me in like Scorpion in Mortal Kombat—C’MERE!—and uppercut me right in the nuts.
That’s what you do when you’ve spent years in the Big House, and used your evil Food Network powers to become the de facto ruler of this 52 galaxy cluster we happen to call the Local Group. Instead of decapitated stag-heads adorning her wall, she’s got the rumps of world leaders and A-list celebrities mounted throughout, all with a giant dildo sticking out from their violated balloon knots. There’s also a laminated pic above each one: some variation of her throwing a cheesy grin or prominent thumbs-up—usually both—at the camera while her prey screams in agony from the CO2-propelled dildo that’s been launched into their butt.
I voice frightened whimpers—EEK! NYAAH! AHGODPLEASE!—as popcorn after popcorn rebounds off my bung. She chortles with delight as my buttcheeks quiver and jump, desperately trying to enclose just one goddamn piece of butter-slick Jumbo Pop.
“Down to my last piece, Kent! If you don’t get this next one I’m gonna do a speedbag workout on your nutsack and jackhammer your brown-eye with two-finger death strikes! That’s BEFORE I try my newest harpoon on you! You’s about to break the Buttpuncher 2000’s cherry, you prison fish whore!”
My dirt pucker clenches in vain, desperately trying to grab her next piece of popcorn, but I feel it bounce off my lower back.
“Ha HA!” She rises from her throne, juking toward me and shadowboxing, throwing crisp combinations of jabs, uppercuts, and check-hooks. “Hope your balls’ve learned some Floyd Mayweather-style defense, because I’m about to throw down on ’em like they were a side of beef in Rocky Balboa’s freezer!” She starts humming the Rocky theme: “Da da DAAAAH…da da DAAAH…” while transitioning to a rapid-fire chain of low shots clearly meant to pummel my nuts; it looks like she’s cranking a hand-bike at a billion miles per hour.
“No!” I scream. “Martha PLEASE!”
She ignores me and keeps shadowboxing the air, her eyes growing increasingly more intense as she starts throwing in some MMA techniques: spinning elbow, high knee, question-mark kick…the list goes on and on. If Bruce Lee were still alive and here right now, he would straight-up piss his Game of Death jumpsuit.
So I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Steven Seagal and Chuck Norris appear in a blast of radiance. They’re both clad in their traditional uniforms: Chuck in a gi which is coated in the stars-n-stripes, along with giant flames and camouflaged eagle heads, and Seagal in a pin-striped speedo with a bedazzled yin-yang on the tip of his bulge. They assume fight stances and Martha stops in her tracks.
“Steven—you’re my one of my most best lieutenants. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“The Man Whore is precious to me,” he rasps. “I want him to pass on the secret of my chin-nose-clavicle up-down-up-down left-right-left-right chi-disruption strike.”
“You picked the wrong horse to back,” Martha growls. “The Man Whore is MINE! RUAAAAAAHHH!!!!”
As she charges the crazy-ass action star, Chuck turns to me and grasps his beard with both hands, opening it and revealing a star-spangled portal.
“Quickly, Kent—in here!”
I run toward him and take a leaping dive into the portal. The world hazes around me and I find myself transported to the Enchanted Booty Forest. Typically, I’d be jumping for joy at the prospect of cavorting amongst Elven Soccer Moms, but what I’ve just been through has scarred my mind.
After hugging my knees for a long while and staring blankly at nothing, I whisper a quiet prayer for Chuck and Steven’s buttholes.
Has Martha Stewart trapped you in a torturous hell where anal prolapse is a near certainty? 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 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! Also, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com! Go check out his computer-based wizardry 🙂 🙂 😀
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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