“Oh Martha…” I sigh and run my hand across the framed picture of Martha Stewart I keep on the pedestal of my completely uncreepy, candle-dotted shrine inside my walk-in closet. “You’re so pretty, so tough…you refused to let those piece-of-crap SEC prosecutors have the last word, even when they threw you in prison…”
“KENT!” My wife Irma Horfendorff’s knifelike voice slices through my reverie, causing me to flinch like a beaten dog. “WHERE’S MY MONTHLY TRIBUTE, PAYABLE IN DIAMONDS OR HIGH-END FURNITURE? YOU BETTER HAVE IT IN FULL THIS TIME, YOU BITCHSLUT FUCKSTINK YOU!”
“Coming, dear!” I scurry out from the closet, trying to appease her with bright, false laughter. “Calm down—you know how you get when you’re angry! Please don’t fist me!”
“TOO LATE FOR THAT, KENTY! GONNA USE A 20 OUNCE BOXING GLOVE, NO LUBE! YOU’LL BE WEARING DIAPERS FOR MONTHS, AND YOU’LL HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR NAME TO GAPER MCGAPERSON! MWAHAHAHAHA!”
No! NO! I halt in my tracks and wring my hands, agonizing over what to do.
Then my eyes steel over. Fuck it. Only one option left. I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Martha Stewart crashes through the roof like a Food Network version of the Son of Krypton. She lands in a single-kneed crouch; a web of cracks sprouts on the floor, and a rain of busted drywall and broken ceiling spills down from above.
“Your ass is mine,” she rasps, rising to her feet. Debris falls off her shadowed form. “No one else’s.”
Irma Horfendorff bursts into the room, her lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl. “Back off bitch! Kent’s due for a Sauron-style pegging! You’d best leave before I—”
Martha charges my demonic (now ex, thankfully) wife, her hands chopping the air with both hands like the T-1000. Irma lets loose with a titanic roar, causing the air to blur and shake–I’m bucked off my feet, my nose and ears erupt with blood.
When I hit the ground, I turn onto my stomach and frantically belly-crawl toward the door. I’ve countered Irma’s evil with Martha’s fury, but at what cost?
AT. WHAT. COST????
*Theme from Requiem for a Dream*
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