You may not know it, but I’m now a member of the international phenomenon known as BTS. Here’s how it happened:
As I’m strolling through town, I walk past a rando alley and glance down its length. Holy magoobers, is that…
I stop in my tracks, mouth agape. RM gives me a casual nod. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Dude!” I grab my hair, dimly aware I’m about to hyperventilate. “I fucking love your shit!”
“Thanks man. We know you from somewhere?” Jin cocks his head, quizzical.
I walk into the alley and shake his hand. “My pen name’s Kent Wayne. My Korean name is 이 – -. My American name is —- —.”
“YOU’RE Kent Wayne?” Jimin lifts a crack pipe, blazes up, and takes a hit. “Zany author and award-winning Man Whore? Didn’t know you were Korean. Nice.”
He nods in acknowledgment. “Damn, you’re a good-looking dude. You should be one of us.”
“Means a lot, coming from you guys,” I chuckle. Then my brow crinkles. “Wait—you speak English? And you smoke…crack?”
He blows out, then says in a choked voice, “Meth. Couldn’t you tell? Everyone says I give off the meth-iest vibe.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, yeah…you kinda do, now that I think about it.”
“We’re all fluent in English,” TaeHyung explains. “That broken shit is purely for marketing purposes. Also, soccer moms love smashing nethers with inarticulate foreigners.”
“You guys like soccer moms???” My eyes widen again. “Me too! I should DEFINITELY be one of you!”
“Show us what you got,” Suga says.
I perform their Dynamite routine, which earns a round of approving nods. “How long did that take you to learn?” Hobi asks.
“Six months?” I venture nervously, clutching my hands to my chest
They start muttering amongst themselves, then RM shakes his head. “No way, man. We can’t have a guy who takes six months to learn a goddamn routine.”
“It’s my big fucking penis!” I wail. “It’s so hard to dance with it! It knocks against my knees and messes with my ankles! Come on guys—PLEASE!”
“WHAT DID RM SAY?” Methed-out Jimin grabs my lapels, shoves me against the wall, and rakes my face with his red-veined eyes. “AIN’T GOT TIME FOR YOUR NON-DANCING ASS!” He slaps me thrice in quick succession: forehand—PAP!—then a backhand forehand—wh’pap-PAP!
“AGH!” I clutch my face as the tears start to run. “You’re supposed to be inclusive! Now you’re persecuting your big-penised fans? FUCKERS!”
Jungkook casts a quick look around. “No cops. Let’s beat his ass and get the hell out of here.”
As they begin to close in, I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality-distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly, my wiener bursts out of my pants, snakes up my chest, and ties itself around my neck like a fleshy version of a sweater-around-the-neck.
“Huh?” RM pauses, fist cocked. “I don’t get it.”
Neither do I, to be honest. I hold my hands up, about to beg for my life, then understanding dawns in his eyes.
“Hey guys,” he looks at his bandmates. “We’re always pushing boundaries, right? We could use a new member with a giant, sweater-douche penis. Also, he’s super muscly, which gives us added variety.”
“I don’t’ know…” Suga narrows his eyes.
Jimin shoves the meth-pipe in my face. “Take a hit—TAKE A HIT, MOTHERFUCKER!”
“Easy there, killer.” RM pushes him back, helps me to my feet, and dusts off my shoulders. “So what do you say, Kent Wayne? Think you can dance with your meat around your shoulders?”
“Yeah!” My eyes light up. “And I can sing into the head like it’s a big-ass microphone.”
“One thing at a time, Man Whore, one thing at a time.” RM pats the air as if to say, slow your roll. “Now let’s go find us some horned-up soccer moms.”
“Thanks man!” Tears moisten my cheeks. “You guys are the best!”
As always, Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
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