A bead of sweat rolls down my temple.  I gulp down food and glance side to side without turning my head.

“Chicken’s good,” Giada De Laurentiis mutters.

“Mm.”  Sofia Vergara’s expression is straight-up lifeless, a perfect match to her deadpan tone.

For the next few minutes, all I can hear is the scrape of cutlery, sips made deafening by the murderous ambience, and the maddening squish of grudging mastication.  Jesus Christ—why did I agree to this?  A formal dinner with my celebrity clients?  As an award-winning Man Whore, I should’ve known better; their jealousy and egos are off the charts.  This is bound to end in blood and death, interspersed with pegging and possibly castration.

Padma Lakshmi straightens up, dabbing her lips with a folded napkin.  “So, Beyonce…” 

“Yes, bitch?”  The Grammy Award winner raises an eyebrow, holds her fork in an icepick grip, then stabs a delicious piece of chicken on her plate.  She holds it like that for a lingering moment, hand and arm quivering with rage, then shoves it in her gob and maows it down.

Padma responds with a silent death-glare. 

Taylor Swift clears her throat.  “Seems like things are a little tense.  Maybe we should switch to dessert…”

Martha Stewart scoffs with venomous mirth.  “What do YOU know about dessert?  Stay in your lane, fuckgobble, and go warble some more about traitorous cocks.”

“That is IT!” Taylor screams.  She chucks a knife at the Food Network goddess, who rolls backward in her seat and onto the floor.  Her overturned chair shields her from the knife—Ka-THUNK—while her backwards roll nets her some distance and allows her to surge up to her feet.

Chaos erupts throughout the dining room.  ScarJo uppercuts J-Lo in the crotch, eliciting a pained howl from the pop-music icon:  “YOU PUNCHED ME IN MY FLAPS!!!” 

I fall sideways onto the floor and start low-crawling through the chaos.  I make it a couple of yards before Salma Hayek grabs my ankles.  “Where do you think YOU’RE going, you trollop-slut fuck-pig?  You’re the reason we’re all fucking fighting!”

“AHGODNO!” I sob.  If I don’t get out of here, they’re gonna turn my ballsack into a lampshade or face mask!

Fuck it.  No options left.  I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers.  Magic flash. 

The Big Three—Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman—bust through the wall and start pulling my clients off each other.  Batman disappears under a pile of divas, Superman staggers and clutches his head.  He manages, “What…what…” before Martha opens wide, revealing a set of green-glowing dentures. 

“No…” he murmurs.  “Please…”

“Fuck you!” she hisses.  “Kryptonite biteys!”  Then she sprints forward, knocks him to the ground, and starts savaging his crotch with her emerald chompers.  I catch a glimpse of his beleaguered twig-n-berries (Ha—KNEW they were small!) before Wonder Woman hooks my arm and flies me through the hole in the wall.

“Where are we going?” I gasp. 

“I tagged along so I could snatch you up and get me some of your famous upcurve.”

“What about Batman and Superman?”

“The pouty goth and the micro-dicked boy scout?  Fuck em.  Got a plan to rub salt in their wounds—this is gonna be a foursome.  You, me, Catwoman, and Lois.  Also, Martha Kent might drop by and chill.”

“Superman’s MOM???”

“You a Man Whore or not?”

I hiss through my teeth.  “Yeah, but it’s Superman’s MOM…”  Then I shrug in defeat.  “Whatever.  Let’s do it.”

“Attaboy.”

Kent Wayne wins again!  HEH heh heh!

😀

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