I bend down and pick up what looks like a fancy business card. The front says: MAN WHORE WANTED FOR THIRSTY SOCCER MOM. MUST HAVE GIRTH, UPCURVE, AND TOLERANCE FOR ROMCOMS. The back has a name, email, and contact number.
Girth and upcurve? I’m your guy! (We can talk about the romcoms. Might have to charge a little bit extra.)
I stuff it in my pocket, about to go about my doo-bee-doo business, when I glimpse another one a few feet ahead. It’s pretty much the same, only the contact info is for a different soccer mom. I put it in my pocket, then catch sight of a third, a fourth…there’s a trail of business cards leading down the sidewalk.
My excitement builds as I pick up cards. My dick and my wallet have just hit the jackpot!
Suddenly, an unmarked van screeches up to me. Someone bags my head and throws me in the back.
“MMFF! WHAT THE—”
A needle pierces my arm and the world goes black.
“Welcome, Kent.” The lights click on.
I’m spreadeagled on a cold metal table. A naked bulb blazes overhead, assaulting my eyes with harsh white glare. My fly is unzipped and my undies are down, allowing my hog and my balls to spill across my thighs and onto my knees. The world hazes into focus and reveals my kidnapper: a thin-lipped man with pinched features and a horrendous case of resting bitch face.
“Grammar Nazi Prime!” I strain and thrash against my restraints. “You’ll pay for this, fuckface!”
GNP folds his hands behind him. “You’re a literary cancer, Kent. You denote telepathic communication with italics and brackets, and encourage the use of single-world sentences.” His lip curls in disgust. “Unconscionable.” He holds out a gavel and nods at a figure hidden in the shadows.
Judge Judy emerges from the darkness. She hefts the gavel and gives me a sinister grin.
“You don’t use a gavel!” I gasp. “I’ve seen every episode!”
“Been saving my gavel-rage for your unkempt balls.” Her gavel starts vibrating, so damn fast it turns blurry with speed. It’s like looking at the Flash before he phases through steel.
I am fucked. I am FUCKED.
No options left. So with a herculean burst of panic-flooded effort—hrrrRRANGH!!!—I rip an arm free, reach into my pocket, and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Hot-ass milfs from days of yore—Padma, Giada, Rachael—crash through the ceiling and immediately engage with the gavel-wielding judge. Their hand to hand is fucking amazing— rife with spin-kicks, backflips, and a complicated series of traps and escapes.
“Ha!” Grammar Nazi Prime crows. “You think your Food Network friends can beat Judge Judy? Not a chance, Kent! NOT A CHANCE!”
The bulb fritzes, whines, then blows apart into a shower of sparks. Red luminescence glazes the room, courtesy of the emergency backup lighting. At the same time, Carl Orff’s “O Fortuna” begins to play, filling the air with budding tension.
“Who’s there?” Grammar Nazi Prime draws a gun and glances wildly around. “Show yourself!” Judge Judy looks from side to side, slowly backing away while brandishing her gavel. As the Satanic melody builds and grows, GNP starts losing his shit. “I’ll shoot them!” he screams. “SHOW YOURSELF!”
A throaty growl draws his attention, causing him to jerk right and fire—BLAM!—before a woman flickers toward him and rips off his arms with two quick yanks. He stumbles sideways, mouth gaping open in shock and pain, before the woman bludgeons him with his severed limbs. The flurry of strikes is animalistic; in less than a second, he goes from being a recognizable human to a broken mess of pulpy flesh.
Martha Stewart, now clutching his ripped-off arms, slowly turns and faces Judy. “Let the Man Whore go,” she rasps.
“Stay back—STAY BACK!” Judy brandishes her gavel with a shaking hand.
In a voice that would make Batman nod in approval, Martha says, “Wrong answer.” She ditches the arms, blurs toward Judy, and—
—Judy screams as Martha throws a horrifying uppercut. It runs up Judy’s torso, bisecting her body into gory halves, then knocks her head off like an overpressured cork. Her skull ricochets off the walls and the ceiling—PWING-ZING-PKOO!—before bouncing off the door and rolling to a stop in front of Martha’s feet.
“Now,” she whispers, addressing me without turning around, “Let’s check out that upcurved thicky.”
My lips quiver in fear. She just punched Judy in motherfucking HALF.
Vigorous smashes with my Food Network crushes? Sign me up! Kent Wayne wins again—HEH heh heh!
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