An odd thing happens when I flog my hog: “The Flight of the Bumblebee” trumpets to life and starts magically playing through the air. I just wanted to give you an idea of how ridiculously funny it is to watch me punish my wiener—ain’t no sexy bump n’ grind happening when Kent Wayne makes love to his fist; no, it’s a frantic race to extract a disgusting blast of goop from my equally disgusting body.
(Three times a day minimum or I find myself unable to form so much as a simple sentence.)
I feel a familiar burst of relief as I finish getting the poison out, but it instantly turns to fear: I’ve just performed the dreaded “ghost-jack;” I can’t see where I’ve shot my vile seed. I set the timer on my watch, and frantically canvass my studio, a clump of wadded up tissue in my right hand.
You’re probably asking yourself why I set my timer. Here’s the reason: I have super sperm. Sounds cool, right? I assure you that it’s not. These evil cells can exist indefinitely outside my balls, regardless of the environment. Not only that, they can also impregnate inanimate objects, and due to the fact that I’ve killed so damn many of them in the shower, in my socks, and in my unsuspecting enemies’ coffees, any entity they spawn will see me as a threat to their life, one they have to extinguish.
After fifteen minutes, they’ll have mated with cell phones, TVs, kitchen appliances, and all manner of household goods to produce a hostile army of Kent-hating machine-monsters. It’s goddamn imperative that I locate the ghost-jack and flush it down the toilet. Sure, this practice has given rise to a dark society of subterranean abominations, but hey—out of sight, out of mind, right? I’ll deal with them when they invade the surface world.
BEEP BEEP BEEP! My alarm goes off—fifteen minutes have come and gone.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER:
Before I fled my studio, I managed to don a level III-A bulletproof vest and grab my bug-out bag, which contains some basic survival stuff plus a 9 mil with some extra clips. It’s also equipped with a shotgun inside a tactical scabbard, threaded directly onto the rucksack’s modular weave. That the weapon I’m holding in my hands as I run across the street and slide into my car.
I gun the ignition as a Blackhawk helicopter spirals down from the sky, smoke streaming off its rotors as it spins out of view. A second later, I hear screams and explosions. I work the gearshift, jerking the wheel as a tentacled Keurig machine comes flying at me, snarling and spitting. An angry-face emoji shines prominently from its display.
“FUCK YOU!” I yell, resting the shotgun over my left forearm and blasting the Keurig through the driver-side window. It flies into the bushes, tumbling and sparking.
I drive away from my suburb, keeping a wary eye on my rearview mirrors. I’m being chased by an army of sentient microwaves, lawnmowers, and Guitar Hero controllers; my sperm made it out of my studio and infected every house in sight. God DAMMIT!
I make it onto the highway, punching up into fifth gear. A giant refrigerator rips the hood off my jeep with its massive, wire-woven paws, and bellows furiously at me. I meet its gaze in the center rearview, then tilt my shotgun back so it rests over my shoulder.
“Feel the burn, motherfucker—the BUCKSHOT BURN!” (Come on—you all know you wanna spout some cheesy eighties one-liner when you’re about to unload on a sentient machine-monster)
I pull the trigger and the gun roars. Killer Refrigerator rockets off the back of my jeep, and the recoil jumps my muzzle down and bangs it off the dashboard. I swerve manically from side to side, evading an oncoming horde of space heaters, stew pots, and Berkey water filters—all infused with life from my demonic sperm. I stomp the gas, and the howling wind screams past my ears.
Suddenly, the road up ahead is darkened with a flock of cylindrical shadows. I look up and see winged dildos soaring high above me, jackhammering the air with their vibrating dickheads. Amazingly enough, they’re able to speak.
“Ca-CAW! Ca-CAW! We’re coming to fill your holes, Kent! BWAHAHAHA!”
Fuck this! I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A flutter of accounting texts and grammar guidebooks flutter up from my eReader, enveloping my spawn in nitnoy rules and pedantic decrees. The screams of my dying progeny fill the sky. Sweat runnels off my forehead as I direct my focus on holding back my puke; my super-sperm children aren’t the only ones who suffer from grammar and accounting—I feel like I just ate a ghost-pepper stew that was heavily seasoned with fist-sized boogers…while a heavyweight sumo champion was using my nuts as a rope swing.
In a matter of seconds, the skies have cleared, and the roads have emptied. I pull my jeep over to the side of the highway and rest my forehead against the top of my steering wheel. Pained sobs wrack my body.
I managed to win, but I had to employ grammar and accounting against my enemies. Yes, it was a victory, but at what cost?
AT. WHAT. COST???
*Theme music from Requiem for a Dream*
Have you accidentally created an appliance-borne army with a carelessly deployed ghost-jack? 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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