“Be nice to Brayden,” my daughter warns.  “I really like him.”

“ ‘Brayden?’ ”  I raise an eyebrow.  “I’m guessing that’s spelled with an unnecessary Y.  Jesus Christ, were all the Trents and Graysons taken?  He sounds like a boat shoe collecting, Ivy League roofie-slinger.”

“Dad!”

“All right, all right,” I grumble.  How the fuck did I end up here?  Kent Wayne, sci-fi author and award-winning Man Whore, saddled with the responsibility of raising a teenager. 

“There he is.”  I squint out the window, zeroing in on my target as he steps out of his car.  “Punk-ass motherfucker.”

“DAD!”

I clear my throat.  “Yep.  Sorry.”  I open the door as he walks up to the house.  He offers a hand, but I respond by crossing my arms and giving him a suspicious once-over.  “Brayden, right?  With a Y?”

He retracts his hand and gulps nervously.  “Yes sir.”

“Knew it,” I mutter.  “My old job—you know what I used to do?”

“Yes sir.”

“Your mom used to be one of my favorite clients.  She still calls me on a daily basis and begs me to come out of Man Whore retirement.”

He doesn’t say a thing.  The color drains from his face.

“So be nice to my kid, huh?  I hear anything bad, and I’m gonna accommodate your mom with an epic widening.”  I keep my eyes locked on his.  “That’s what they called it back in my day.  Because I’m wide.  Girthy.”

My daughter scoffs in disgust, but I barely notice.  I’m reveling in Brayden’s quivering lip, the welling moisture in both of his eyes. 

“And/or I might just rip your little dick off.”  I tap his sack with a backhanded flick, causing him to bend inward, clutch his nuts, and blurt out a pained “WHOOF!”

“DAD!!!  Come on Brayden, we’re fucking leaving!”  My daughter grabs him by the elbow and marches him toward the car.  Much to my delight, he throws a fearful look back at me.  I respond by making a hole with my index and thumb, then busting through it with a clenched fist and spreading all five fingers.  I’m pretty sure he gets the mom-widening gist.

As they’re driving off, I hear a chuckle coming from the tree to my right.  Batman jumps down and points approvingly at me.  “Nice.  I like it.”

“Thanks,” I say cautiously.  “What are you doing here?”

“Protecting your daughter,” he rasps.

“Um…okaaaayy…”  Then I lean in and zero in on his jaw.  “Wait…you’re not Batman.”

“What are you talking about?”

I stride up to him and study his face.  There’s something off about him…before he can stop me, I grab his ears and pull his cowl back.

“No!” he shouts.  “Don’t—”

“I KNEW it!” I hiss.  “Edward fucking Cullen–the fake-ass pretender!  You think it’s cool to stalk teenage girls?  You’re over a hundred years old, you fucking goddamn degenerate!”

“Ho-hold on,” he stammers.  “Let’s take a deep breath and—”

Fuck this.  I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

Chris Hansen leaps out of an interdimensional portal and blatters the vampire with a Louisville slugger.  Faux-Batman spirals to the grass.  He’s moaning in pain, but it’s super distorted because his lower jaw is skewed grotesquely to the left. 

“You got this, right?”  I fist-bump Hansen.

“Oh yeah,” he nods.  “Can’t believe everyone just gives him a pass.  Got some batteries and alligator clips—they’re gonna look right at home on ol’ fuckstick’s nutsack.”

“Electric car batteries, right?  Unlike what they show on movies and television—”

“Yeah, I know.  Standard 12 volt ain’t gonna cut it.  Don’t worry, I got this.” 

I stroll back inside, whistling a happy little tune.  There’s benefits to being a grumpy old fuck.  Hundred-year old perv, get off my lawn!

Have you run afoul of a piece-of-shit, century-old deviant?  Never fear!  Buy my books, summon Chris Hansen, and get busy with the nut-searing zappa-zap-zap! 

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