Remember that iconic scene from the first Mission Impossible? Where TC is descending upside down on a tension-fraught rope and the slightest mishap could send him straight to Dogshit Fucktown? (Yes, know that’s not a thing but I’m trying my best to expand our collective range of profane expressions).
That’s me right now. I’m hanging upside down in Jeff Bezos’s inner sanctum, attempting to snag his first-print copy of Superman’s inaugural appearance, otherwise known as Action Comics #1.
Operating my rappel line is my best buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire: an 83rd level intellect who calls himself Bitefighter when he’s not humping the shit out of a leg or a canine. (At that point he might call himself Hordak, Overlord, or plain old Daddy, depending on his mood.)
“Woof arf McBark!” he hisses. (Hurry up before he wakes up and kills us! No one rages out like an ultra-successful nerd!)
“Calm down,” I whisper, reflecting a laser away from my body with a micron-cut mirror. “Think positive.”
He spits a curse in doggo as I stop before the glass-enclosed comic. I’m acutely aware of my rhythmic breathing—in the pin-drop silence, it sounds impossibly loud.
Attach the biometrics doppel (a black-box doo-dad that can fake prints, eyes, and faces) to the security interface…and voila! The display case clicks open.
Suddenly, Bezo’s voice thunders through the compound: “FEE FI FO FUM—YOU’RE ABOUT TO GET SPLIT-OPEN STARTING AT THE RECTUM!”
“ARFY BARK AROO!” Bitefighter shouts. (He’s gonna fuck us to death! Let’s get the hell out of here!)
I snatch the comic book and stuff it in my harness. Bitefighter hits the quick-retract button on my motorized pulley and I zip back up into the air-duct.
“Run!” I scream. “FUCKING RUN!”
As we pound down long, echoey ventilation corridors, I chance a look over my shoulder—everything behind us is exploding and disintegrating from a hail of bullets and concussive munitions.
“What the—” I flinch and yelp as a grenade detonates, briefly replacing my hearing with a high-pitched keen. “HE’S PACKING SOME SERIOUS FUCKING ORDNANCE!”
“Rowf roof Arfbarky!” (No shit, Sherlock!)
Right as we run out onto his giant lawn, another explosion sounds behind us and—
—we go flying through the air in slow motion, cycling our arms and legs like eighties action heroes doing a picture-perfect flame jump.
Hit the ground rolling and—
Bezos lands in front of us, mech’d up in a twenty-foot tall, bubble-cockpit-fitted war-suit. He levels his gatling-arm at our grime-streaked faces.
“THE JIG IS UP, YOU THIEVING WHOREBAGS.”
Fuck it. No options left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My pants disappear in a puff of smoke. My ankle-length wiener uncoils itself from around my calf and thigh—
—and punches right through Bezos’s cockpit, hitting him flush on the eye with my big ol’ dick-slit. Fuh-PAP! Take an eight-count, bitch!
Me and Bitefighter resume our getaway, giving each other fives as Bezos goes night-night. A half-mile later, we jump into our jet-plane submarine and motor through a complex network of rivers and lochs.
Kent Wayne escapes again! Ha HA!
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