“Thanks for inviting me over for Thanksgiving.” I look at my ex, Irma Horfendorff. “I know we’ve had our differences, but—”
“Over and done with,” she responds with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Time to bury the hatchet and let bygones be bygones.”
My ex-mother in-law, adds, “Can’t stay angry forever, you know?”
“Absolutely. So what are we having?” I clap my hands and rub them eagerly together. “All the classics, huh? Mashed pertaters, gravy, stuffing, green beans…”
“Look closer at the turkey,” Irma urges. “We put something special inside.”
“Special?” I crane forward and peer into the bird. “What are you talking about? I don’t see anyth—”
“Your motherfucking HEAD!” Irma’s mom rams my skull forward while my ex thrusts the turkey over my face.
“AH! FUCK!” I flail around, trying to pull my noggin out of the turkey’s perfectly brined and seasoned rectum. “TRAITORS!”
Irma and her mom start pummeling me with body shots, riddling my flesh with machine-gun punches. At the same time, they assault my ears with horrendous complaints—why didn’t I get a bigger diamond ring? Why don’t I get a frame for my futon? Why the hell don’t I use any coasters?
I dig my fingers into the bird, ripping it in half and screaming, “Because I like to draw smileys in the GODDAMN STAINS!!!”
My triumph is short-lived—Irma jabs my eye with a hefty rolling pin, giving me a one-way ticket into a world of pain. Her mom uppercuts me in the nuts with a gravy-covered ladle, causing me to drop like I’ve been sniped by a .50 cal.
If I don’t act soon, I am FUCKED.
So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The crotch in my sweatpants suddenly balloons, filling with the physical embodiment of evil and ruin. I reach for my nuts, grab a handful of goo, and brandish it so they can see what’s up.
They slowly back off, hands raised in a let’s-think-about-this gestures. “Easy, Kent—this was a simple misunderstanding. No need to throw any smegma.”
“Misunderstanding?” I scoff. “A couple more seconds, and you would have fucking castrated me.” The heinous gloop starts smoking and sizzling. Demonic whispers begin echoing through the room.
“Not true,” Irma says quickly. “It was all in good fun. We were just—”
“FUCK YOU!” I spin in a circle and whip out my arm, flinging long streaks of Absolute Nasty. Sick green flames immediately erupt, accompanied by phantom skulls that fly and shriek and leave eldritch contrails hanging in the air.
Irma and her mom turn and run for the door. I sprint toward the window. A couple of Balrogs emerge from my smeg, but just as they roar and expel a giant pulse of cataclysmic energy, I tuck into a ball, jump through the glass, and—
—go full-on eighties action hero with a slow-mo flame jump. Watch out, Stallone! Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
Have your in-laws lured you with a tasty spread, then trapped you in a dead bird’s asshole and beaten the absolute shit out of your organs and ribs? Never fear! Buy my books, destroy their house with your unholy secretions, then cap it off with an eighties-movie flame jump!
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