IN A WORLD WHERE GRAMMAR NAZI PRIME, IS JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER…
Grammar Nazi Prime sneers at me from atop his podium. “And so, Kent Wayne, you have been found guilty of violating Grammatical Law, for writing stories aimed at spectacle and wonder, with nary a regard for who and whom, they’re and their, and countless other staples of grammar. What say you, you prolific piece of inventive shit?”
As I rise to my feet, my chair scrapes the deck. In the pin-drop silence, it sounds deafeningly loud. “Your honor…” I study the floor with downcast eyes. “Ever since I have put pen to paper, I have agonized over the consequences of my actions.” I lift my gaze, fixing GNP with a steely glare. “You have seen fit to end my life. But I have one last secret to reveal to the world—a secret that will make you reconsider your decision. A secret that will make you question reality, and everything you purport to hold dear to your heart.”
Grammar Nazi Prime steeples his fingers. “Make it quick.”
“Very well.” I take a deep, steadying breath…then reach down my pants, whip out my wiener, and slam it down on top of the desk. THUNK. There it sits like a yule log cake, capped by monster glans as big as Darth Vader’s helmet.
Everyone stares in stunned silence.
Someone screams, “He’s a national treasure!” And: “Good God, those veins look DELICIOUS!” Along with the storm of thirsty exclamations, there’s a fair amount of folks who don’t say a thing; they simply gargle like Homer Simpson.
“Order in the court!” The judge bangs his gavel several times, wiping the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Order, I say! I don’t give a damn about its magnificence or beauty, ORDER IN THE COURT!” He slams the block with unrestrained force, causing it to jump and flip onto the ground.
No one’s listening. They’re all moving toward me, fixated on my giant hog. It’s a double-edged sword—the bailiffs can’t reach me, but the mob can. Dozens of folks are trundling forward, single mindedly intent on gobbling my wiener.
“Get. OFF!” I shove one away, kick another in the gut, and shoulder-check the mass of dickmatyzed bodies, trying to force my way through their tightening ranks. Slowly but surely, they drag me down to the floor.
Fuck it. No options left. So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Windows blow inward, followed by a stream of super athletic soccer moms. They start beating peoples’ asses and shoving them away. In less than a minute, they’ve cleared enough space for one of them to sling me onto her back.
“Thank God!” I gasp. “They were about to tear me limb from limb!” I cast a brief glance around at the badass moms. Man—they are HOT! Do it, Kent—shoot your shot! “Say…” I clear my throat as the lady beneath me leaps into a turning side kick. “Any of you guys interested in dinner at the Olive Garden? Afterward, we could watch Voltron 84…” (It’s my go-to ask—no one can resist Voltron and Olive Garden!)
“Shut up,” a soccer mom hisses. “You think we’re interested in your lame-ass date night? We’re gonna use you like a cheap piece of meat on sale at Costco, so spare us your amateur Casanova bullshit!”
I almost retort with something snippy, but I bite it back just in time. Use my body like a cheap piece of meat? Yes please! HEH heh heh!
Kent Wayne wins again! 😀
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