“Holy SHIT!” Tom Cruise jumps back, hands up in a whoa-there gesture. “Kent Wayne! Sci-fi author and award-winning Man Whore!”
“Tom Cruise?” My eyes widen in surprise. “What are YOU doing here?”
“Testing out my Scientology spellcraft!” He presses a finger against his lips. “Shh! Normies can’t see me unless I want ’em to!” He cocks his head in apparent puzzlement. “You’re not a normie…is that how you can see me? Must be!” His voice rises with confidence and resolve. “Praise Xenu!” He clinches me hard in a back-slapping bro-hug.
“Um…thanks?” I tentatively return his energetic backpat, looking quizzically from side to side.
He breaks the hug and punches my arm. “Ha! Back in the day, I used to be an amateur Man Whore myself…but then I got distracted by my dark arts spellcraft! Howzabout we have us a Man Whore competition? Check it out!” He thrusts his hips forward and points at his dick-bulge. “Halfway down to my Xenu-damned knee! Pretty good, huh? Let’s see yours—bet mine is bigger!” He reaches for my hog.
“No!” I slap away his hand. “No, that’s not—look, Tom, I’m flattered you’re a fan, but I don’t show penis unless I’m on the clock.”
His expression sours with displeasure. “Tom Cruise gets what Tom Cruise wants. Unless you want to fight an army of stunt doubles—” He nods at a bunch of Ethan Hunt lookalikes, surrounding us in an unobtrusive perimeter while pretending to read newspapers, talk on their phones, or trumpet out bursts of overeager laughter. “—you’d better show me the goods.” TC crosses his arms and stares me down.
I squinch my eyes, blow out an exasperated sigh, and acquiesce with a nod. “Fuck. FINE. One peek. That’s it.”
“Praise Xenu!” TC claps his hands and rubs them briskly together. “Come on, show me whatcha got!”
I unzip my pants, loosen up the sports harness that flattens my bulge, then pull out my Coke can-thick wiener. The head dangles and flops between my kneecaps. “There,” I mutter. “Happy?”
He puts his hands on his hips, studying my glans and shaft with a furrowed brow. “What…that’s not…” He shakes his head in firm denial. “No. NO. You think you can fool me? THAT CAN’T BE REAL! WHO SENT YOU? WHO???” He grabs my lapels and shakes the shit out of me.
“No one sent me, you fucking nut!” I stuff my piece back in its harness, zip up my pants, and push him away.
He joins his fingers in a series of ninja symbols, contorting his digits in practiced twists. “ARMY OF TOMS—PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands, backing away as the Toms stop what they’re doing and start closing in. “Hey fellas, let’s think about this, huh? No one needs to—”
Tom screams, “HUBBARD ETERNAL!” and launches a complicated chain of improbable strikes—ridge-hand, wheel-kick, backsweep—straight out of a kung-fu action flick. His Tom-servants follow, humming different sections of the Mission Impossible theme.
“Fuck!” I bob, weave, then block an elbow with a lift of my arm. “Who fights like this???” A couple more blocks, then I land some MMA staples: a low Thai kick and an overhand right. I lock in an overhook, leverage it into a turning Judo throw, then execute a classic single-leg, following up with a stomp as my takedown exposes a pair of stunt double nuts.
“He can’t take all of us!” TC screams. “Pour it on!”
Two Toms dogpile my legs, another one jumps onto my back. “Get…the fuck…OFF…” I wail away at the ones on my legs, but they hold fast with crazy-guy strength, biting my thighs like rabid chihuahuas. An involuntary scream bursts from my mouth: “FUCKERS!” Then I go toppling backward into the horde of Toms.
They’re punching and kicking, cracking my ribs…fuck it, no options left. So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its hidden reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My wiener lurches, growls, then burst from its harness and soars overhead, eclipsing the sun with its towering flesh. As it trumpets a roar from its titanic glans, the Toms back away in muted awe. One of them mutters, “Holy Mary mother of—” before my wiener descends and smashes him flat. It pistons up and down with brutal ferocity, cracking concrete and pavement as it crushes my enemies. A quartet of Toms leap onto the head, but it flails outward like an enormous whip, and—
—they go flying hundreds of yards in different directions, spinning through the air with spread-eagled limbs.
Original Tom Cruise scoots back on his butt, hand outstretched. “No! Stay back!” He scrambles to his feet before—
—my dick pancakes his body. As the shaft rises, I catch a glimpse of his crumpled torso and shattered face, then—
—it smashes him again, surging up with terrifying speed. One last time—
—and Tom’s remains squirt out from beneath it, reduced to a splash of bone-speckled tissue and gooshy ichor. That’s what you get, fool, for trying to out-dick me!
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
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