A tesla pulls up. The window rolls down. “Get in.”
Holy shit—it’s Elon Musk!
I slide in beside him, trying to control the quaver in my voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He steps on the accelerator, guiding the car onto the road. “I’m a magnanimous guy. Every now and then, I’ll give a ride to a peasant so I can spread my magnanimity.”
“Uh, thanks?” I chuckle nervously. “Not sure I’m a ‘peasant,’ but—”
“Nonsense.” He flaps a hand. “You’re all peasants. Oop—here’s our stop.” He’s driven us into the middle of nowhere: a desolate tract of scrub-coated desert.
“What are we doing here?” I look nervously around.
Instead of answering, he lifts a cheek and cuts loose with a beefer. “OHHHH!” His eyes roll back and his face goes slack. “Love smelling my own farts—fucking LOVE IT!” As he sucks in a lungful, his nostrils dilate along with his pupils.
It hits me like a punch to the gut. I start yanking on the door but he’s locked me in. “Fuck! HELP!” My gorge rises and I clutch my belly. “Why does it smell so goddamn BAD??? HORKKK!” I paint the dash in chunks of barf.
“I eat bacon made from school-age children, cured in a mixture of coke and adderall.” He cuts loose with a wet-sounding trill. “Fuckholes on twitter keep giving me shit. This is the only thing that gives me relief.”
“You’re going to…kill me?” I gasp. “HOOOOOORRRKKKK!!!”
“That’s the idea.” He couldn’t smile any wider.
If I wasn’t about to puke up my organs, I’d baste his face in nasty-ass sperm. But I haven’t jerked off in a porta-shitter since I was in the military, and his human-bacon farts are ten times worse than anything I’ve smelled. There’s no fucking way.
I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Reams of swimmers erupt from my wiener, coating Elon in pulses of gametes. My magic eReader goes the extra mile: it summons a miniature simulacra of Chuck Norris, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. He’s jerking it right along with me, coating the magnate in wave after wave of seed and man chowder.
“Take that, ya global elitist fucklord!” Chuck Norris crows. “Don’t mess with Texas!”
Elon flinches and spasms in fight-or-flight horror. “No! What are you—PHHHBBBTTT!!! Oh God, it smells like ASPARAGUS AND KARATE!!!!”
Pretty soon, he collapses in his seat, pummeled senseless by the force and the smell. After Chuck helps me kick out a window, I make my way back to civilization, grinning like the cat that got the fucking cream.
Well…that isn’t entirely accurate—I didn’t get any cream.
I’m the fucker who was dishing it out.
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
Have you fallen into the clutches of a filthy-rich billionaire who’s determined to kill you with their human-bacon flatulence? Never fear! Buy my books and defend yourself with your disgusting-ass fluids!
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