The year is 2030.
Here’s the deal: viruses, riots, hornets, blah-blah-blah. Ten years later, Grammar Nazis have taken control of the government, transforming a fragile democracy into an iron-fisted autocracy.
I ran from safe house to safe house, eventually taking shelter in a redwood forest, but my ginormous wiener gave me away. As Grammar Nazi drones canvassed the woods, my big ol’ dickhead poked out from behind a tree and alerted them to my presence. I was handcuffed and bagged, then led into the belly of a RipScream Attack Saucer (the weaponization of element 115 led to a whole new generation of military aircraft; they were a quantum leap ahead of their physics-bound predecessors).
Right now I’m chained to a desk, forced to correct endless reams of soul-dead essays with a red-ink pen, just like the ones your old-school teachers used to harry you with.
My beard has grown thick and unruly. My balls have shrunk into withered pits. My wiener has become a stunted gray nub that barely shows any signs of life. Even when I think of super-hot soccer moms, the best it can manage is a pitiful twitch, like those tired-ass dogs in a sad-ass Sarah MacLachlan commercial.
Fuck this. This blows a big ol’ donkey D. So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Hunter S. Thompson appears in Force Ghost form, brandishing a fistful of magic mushrooms. “Time for some novelty!” he declares, standing me up and yanking down my pants.
Just as he’s about to give me a fistful of Prison Style, I scream, “Wrong hole, Hunter! WRONG HOLE!!!”
“Whoops, sorry.” He gives me an apologetic grin and a sheepish shrug. “Sometimes I get a little carried away. I should probably dial back on the coke and acid.”
“Yeah, YA THINK?” I look over my shoulder, eyebrow raised in fear and indignation. “Gimme those!” I snatch the shrooms and jam them down my Gommer McNommerYob. Crunch crunch crunch…
The world collapses into a light-speed blur, hitting me with mandala after mandala of infinite intelligence and transcendent love, coursing through my body and turning me into…
Muscle ripples across my skinny body, cabling my flesh with sinew and tone. My wiener droops between my kneecaps, wagging back and forth like a meaty pendulum. Kent Wayne: musclebound Man Whore at your service!
Just as the guards burst in, I kick a hole in the wall and whip my hips, sending my prehensile womb-hammer shooting into the distance. It whips tightly around a sturdy tree branch, and—
—I rocket out from the Grammar Nazi prison, swinging from tree to tree like an x-rated Spider-man.
Kent Wayne escapes again! Ha HA!
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