I race up to my new lady-singer-obsession (sorry, Taylor), clutching a pen and an 8×10 glossy, holding them out in front of me so I can get me an autograph.
“Kelly! Kelly, would you please sign my—”
Kelly Clarkson looks at me, her expression twisting into a disgusted grimace.
“YOU TRIED TO SEDUCE MY MOM! SECURITY!!!”
“Wait!” I protest, holding both hands up. “I try to seduce EVERYbody’s—”
A second later, I’m embroiled in a rock-em-sock-em drop-yer-pants-and-grab-yer-cock saloon-style scuffle, throwing wild haymakers and grappling for underhooks with a quartet of roided-out NFL rejects.
“No! KELLY!” I stretch my hand out as she hops onto an open-platform gyrocopter (like a one-person helicopter that you can stand on), lowers a pair of aviation goggles onto her face, then gives me the finger as she takes off. “KELLLYYYYY!!!”
One of her goons grabs my arms by the elbows, and pulls them back behind me, exposing my chest. The other rips off his jacket and pounds his fist into the meat of his palm.
“Gonna speed-bag your balls, Man Whore.”
“The fuck you are,” I rasp.
And before he can throw a single punch, I rip an arm free and reach into my pocket for my eReader and fumble it open to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
An interdimensional wormhole—it’s ringed with grinning skulls and howling werewolf heads—opens to my left. demonic-yet-sexy Leona Lewis jackknifes out of it, hitting the ground and flowing into a shoulder roll. She spins to her feet and unslings the guitar she’s got strapped across her chest, holding it at the waist like it was Jesse Ventura’s minigun (if you haven’t seen the OG Predator, choke yourself). Her fingers become a blur, wailing on the axe as if she were James fucking Hetfield.
Meneh meneh MEH! Meneh meneh MEH! Giant waves of energized sound come pouring DEOM her guitar, manifesting as a flutter of bats, medieval weaponry, and goth’d up X-wings that would draw a respectful nod from Tim Burton.
Kelly’s pop-borne goons scream and wither before the onslaught of Pure Metal. After they’ve withered into tiny anime dolls (that’s what you get for serving a Dark Lord of Pop—ha HA!) Leona unslings her guitar and looks me up and down.
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I know you like girly music, Kent. Spare me your lies.”
“Shut up. Rake off your pants.”
All too happy to comply.
Do you need to beat back the evils of pop-born music (GOD I love it—I can’t help myself!!!) with a calculated dose of METAL AS FUCK FURY? 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 Vol.4 on Kindle here: Vol. 4 on Kindle Echo Omnibus here: Echo Omnibus Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition If you wanna hear me babble on about anything and everything, and strain my FREAKIN’ BRAIN, then here’s a link to my podcast: Strained Brains! It is on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, and Google Play! Please give it a listen and a five-star review! Here’s the miscellaneous gear that I use to try and become an uber-human: Optimization, and last but not least, 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, 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! 😲💪 😜