“I want you to teach me.”  Steven Seagal, in all his creepy-gross glory, is knocking out shirtless pushups right at my feet.  His thick-haired gut slops on the floor, making wet shlorpy noises with each halfass rep—it’s like his stomach is making out with the ground.  “You’re a professional Man Whore.  Teach me your ways.”

“Uh…what do you mean?”  I resist the urge to start backing away.

“I fooled a lady into going out on a date,” he grunts.  “Took a fuckton of photoshop, but I finally got someone to swipe right on my pic.”

“She’s not a catfish?”  I give him a doubtful look.

“A billion aaaand TWO!”  He forces out a rep and gets to his feet.  “I hired a private investigator.  He checked her out, made sure she’s real.”

“Why are you doing pushups?”

“Getting a pump,” he deadpans.  “It’ll trigger her ovaries—she’ll want to have sex within seconds of meeting.”

My brow wrinkles with a mix of concern, skepticism, and WTF.  “That’s…not how it works.”

He sniffs his fingers, then fixes me with a dead-eyed, sunglassed stare.  “I’ve hired you for one reason and one reason only:  to show me how to induce a female…hold on.”  He raises a finger and looks down at his phone.  His lips work in a silent rhythm as he reads the screen.  “Orjasm.  Those weren’t a thing back in my day.”

“It’s pronounced orgasm.  And they absolutely were a thing back in your day.  Look, Steven, I’m not the guy for you.  We’re too far apart in our views on—”

Before I can finish, he bear-hugs my head, clamping my face onto his disgusting neckbeard.  “There is no escape.”

“Oh God!”  My eyes start watering.  “What is that SMELL???”

“My diet leaks out through my skin.  I enjoy human secretions and median-born crops.”

“You eat shitty plants that grow on the side of the road?” I gasp.  “What the—BLUUUUUGGGHHH!”  Vomit surges past my lips, plastering his already gross neckbeard with even more grossness. 

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

Chuck Norris jumps out of an interdimensional portal, clad in nut-hugging jeans and a cut-off denim vest.  The roundhouse kicks come in a furious combo—in less than a second, Steven’s howling in pain, running out of his garage-gym into his house.

“That’s what I thought, ya communist pussy!” Chuck crows.  “Ain’t no hiding from the power of kuh-ratty!”  He looks me up and down with an insane-o glare.  “Gonna shotgun some beers, then do butt-nekkid curls in front of a mirror!  Whaddaya say, pencil-neck?”

“Um, no thanks.”  I make some half-formed gestures toward the door, trying to come up with a suitable excuse.  Nothing comes to mind, so I lamely end with, “I’m gonna…I’m gonna GO.”

“Suit yerself, nerd!”  Chuck sprints over to a heavy bag and starts beating the shit out of it.  In between strikes, he declares, “I’m an American…ICON!  American…ICON!” 

As I’m leaving, I chance a look back.  He’s sagging forward onto the bag, sobbing relentlessly onto its surface.  A second later, he flexes both arms and greedily makes out with his contracted biceps.

Weird, but okay.

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