“This is ridiculous,” Wiener snarls. “I’m not a dog, goddammit!”
My penis, which I’ve girdled tightly around my thigh and pulled out the hem of my right pants’ leg, is dressed in a Darth Vader costume. The glans are a natural choice for the dick-shaped helmet; every time I glance at the floor, it looks like a costumed Dachshund is following me around.
I nudge Wiener with the edge of my foot. “Shut up, fucker! It’s the only way we could crash this event—Jeff Bezos doesn’t invite any old asshole to a gala in his blimp!” (We had to bullshit dozens of goons and stone-faced ticket-checkers, but yes, your favorite comedy/action duo—Kent Wayne and Wiener—have wormed their way into a high society shindig)
“You brought your dog!” An uber-hot soccer mom crouches before Wiener. “Aren’t you a cutie-patootie! Yes you are—yes you ARE!” She clasps Wiener’s glans like a pair of cheeks and gives them a series of vigorous shakes. After a couple of seconds, her expression crinkles with suspicion and puzzlement. “Is this costume on right? I think your dog is…growing?”
“He’s got a condition,” I reply hurriedly. “He swells up fast. For some reason, female touch sets him off.”
“Um…okay.” She wrinkles her nose. “He smells like bleach and dirty socks.”
“Does he?” I bark out weak, unconvincing laughter. “Nah, must be my ass. Want to dance?”
She gives me a weird look. “Sorry, I was talking to a friend and I left her hanging. So…I’m gonna go.”
As she turns and leaves, I glare at Wiener. “Great job, fuckhole! You almost blew our goddamn cover!”
He glares back up at me. “Well if you finally got some fucking vajeen, I wouldn’t be swelling at the drop of a hat!” He wriggles around in his Darth Vader outfit. “This is WAY too tight! Also, I can feel your balls sloshing around—it feels like I swallowed ten pounds of pudding!”
Before I can respond, Jeff Bezos makes his way up to me, martini in hand. “Kent Wayne, sci fi author and perennial Man Whore!”
“Jeff Bezos, robot overlord and genitalia-shaped lizard-person!” I shoot back. Then I cover my mouth with both hands. “Shit! Sorry, I spoke before I—”
Jeff roars with laughter. “You’re a refreshing change of pace from my anus-licking minions. I didn’t realize I invited you and your dog…but it’s just as well that you made it aboard. You’re about to take part in an epic experiment.”
“Uh…” I give him a suspicious once-over. “Not sure I like the sound of that.”
“I’ve perfected an aerosol that will forcibly change a person’s appearance,” he elaborates. “Inside of a month, everyone on Earth will look like me.”
“That’s a fate worse than death!” I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”
“I would.” He grins and brandishes a teched-out trigger. “A push of this button and—”
Wiener rears up and flexes his dickskin, unleashing a spurt of vile smegma. “Not a chance, you Lex Luthor knockoff!” As soon as it hits the apocalypse trigger, it starts eating through the polymer casing. Bezos drops it in shock, flinching back and shaking his almost-burned hand.
“What have you DONE?!? You—” His face twists with hate and malice, then he takes off running for the emergency exit.
“Hey fucker!” Me and Wiener pursue the magnate, jostling butlers and ball-gowned ladies. “C’mere! You’re gonna pay for your Doctor Evil ways!”
He throws on a parachute and pops the exit. Violent wind rushes in, giving rise to panicked screams. “Too late, Kent! I’m getting the hell out of Dodge!”
I try and grab him, but he steps off-line and yanks my wrist, sending me tumbling out the gaping hatch. WHHHSHSHHHHH!!!! As I spin-plunge through the open sky, I’m buffeted and thrown by currents and updrafts. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Bezos spreading his arms and legs, giving me the finger as he zips past a cloud.
“WHAT’RE WE GONNA DO?” Wiener screams.
“I DON’T KNOW!” I scream back.
Then it hits me: I still have one card left to play. So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My pants vanish, and my tarp-sized scrotum billows out from my legs. I grab it with both hands, and—
—pull it taut into an improvised parachute. A dozen yards below, Bezos hits the ground and looks up in panic.
“No!” he yells, doffing his chute as he flees my sun-eclipsing sack. “NO!”
The shadow of my scrotum follows in his wake, growing larger as we close the distance. Bezos trips, falls, then starts scooting away on his butt and hands.
“NO!” he shrieks. “PLEASE!”
Then he’s covered in smeg-rich folds, flailing and hollering with unhinged frenzy. As his skin melts away, smoke rises up from beneath my sack, and I can make out the outline of his thrashing body. God, what a horrible way to die.
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
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