There once was a time when you could write freely. When you could put forth crazy-fun stories about Elves, psychics, Gray Alien abductors, or brain-hijacking worms without people getting all up on your writerly nuts.
That time has passed. This is 2020.
Plague. Riots. Murder hornets.
Not just Grammar Nazis—I’m talking about all kinds of finger-wagging wrist-slappers, ready to jump in your shit ’cos you’ve broken the Rules. Passive Voice Assholes. Emo-poets. Most English professors.
From my experience, they’re all men with extraordinary small wieners (you can tell by the simmering rage in their expressions) and unsightly dad-bods. Men who are too uptight to connect with that divine creative spark, and resort to sniping at those who can.
Only in 2020, the sniping is literal.
I run across the frozen ground, flinching as rounds snaps by, cracking against trees or digging into the earth. Drones let loose with miniature missiles, ringing me in with plumes of fire that erupt from the deck.
“YOUR ASS IS OURS, WAYNE! SINCE WHEN DID YOU THINK IT WAS ACCEPTABLE TO WRITE INCOMPLETE SENTENCES, OR WRITE ANYTHING OTHER THAN MEANDERING POETRY??? THERE ARE SCHOOLS AND DEGREES FOR LITERATURE—WE WILL NOT TOLERATE ANOTHER AUTHOR FROM OUTSIDE ACADEMIA!”
Fuck! A missile explodes behind me, lifting me up and sending me soaring. I touch down and roll, marveling at the fact that I haven’t been hit by any shrapnel. I push through a thick wall of bushes, breaking through the tree-line into—
Oh SHIT—a goddamn cliff!
I screech to a halt, backpedaling wildly and falling onto my butt. A couple more steps and I would have plummeted to my death.
Drones crest the firs and pines, illuminating my body with harsh floodlights. Even though I can’t see them, I know invisible lasers are dancing across my torso, marking me for 5.56, 7.62, and .308.
“YOU’RE FINISHED, WAYNE. SURRENDER.”
Fuck it. No options left. So I open my eReader to Kor’Thank, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Ernest Hemingway falls from the sky dressed in an old-school strongman singlet. “EAT MY ASS, YOU NERDY FUCKING SCALLAWAGS!” He assumes an old-timey boxing stance and starts throwing hairy-knuckled punches, exploding peoples’ faces and knocking them toothless. Holy fuck!
I hightail it out of there, glancing back over my shoulder just in time to see him take a swig of whiskey and hold a lighter to his face, blowing a whoosh of flame into the midst of the writing snobs.
Part of me feels sorry for them, but…
Nah! Fuck those cock-smears! Kent Wayne wins again! Ha HA!
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