Man, the apocalypse wasn’t that bad!  Yeah, we’ve got zombies, viruses, and mutated humanoids wandering through deserts, but once we secured our logistics and production, humanity settled into a network of reinforced hives.

I’m based in New San Diego.  We’ve got helos and jets, tons of artillery, a walled-and-towered perimeter that stretches for dozens of miles, and organic sourcing for ammo and supplies.  I spend most of my time cracking jokes and standing watch in a tower.  Every now and then, I’ll pick off a skel (that’s slang for a super-skinny zombie), but most of it’s radio checks, followed by cursory scans with thermals and scopes.  Boring?  Sure.  But we like it that way.

“Hey, Kent.”  My watchmate, a rangy guy named Jake Cross, stares out at the wastes through his tricked-out binos.  “Just spotted a no-shit person.”

I shift on my lawn chair.  “Prolly just a healthy-looking mutate.”

“He’s got definite cognition.  Pupils point in the same direction, gait’s rhythmic and coordinated, and no visible sores or breaks.”

I uncross my arms and get to my feet.  A peek through my binos confirms his assessment.  Guy’s a little shaggy, but he’s relatively clean and unmistakably coordinated.  “Hold on…” I mutter.  “That face…holy shit.”  Recognition coalesces in my brain.

“Richard GERE?”

The star halts a half-mile  away.  He spreads his arms and booms, “New San Diego!  Surrender your facilities or I’ll take them by force!”

I glance at Jake.  “Make comms with HQ.”  As he clicks on with command, I raise a megaphone up to my lips.  “How the hell are you still alive?”

“Drank some glowing purple sludge in Abandoned New York!  It’s why you can hear me crystal clear, even though I don’t have a bullhorn!  Got a bunch of other powers too!  Now let me in or I’ll huff and I’ll puff!”

“Nah bud, that isn’t how it works.  You opened with a threat.  That means we can throw you supplies and a tent, but that right there is the extent of our generosity.”

He starts unbuckling his pants.  “Your funeral.  Remember what they said about me back in the 90s?”

My intuition provides the answer, but Jake crinkles his brow and mutters, “What is he talking about?”

I grin wryly.  “Supposedly, he had gerbils in his ass.”

Gere bends over and points his butthole at us.  “Drinking the sludge made them into a weapon!”  Rodents pour out of his dilated anus—a mind-boggling stream of red-eyed beasts. 

I smack the all-hands alarm, triggering flashing red lights accompanied by sirens, then lean into my rifle and go full fucking auto.  “ASS GERBILS!  AAAHHHHHH!!!!”  As casings clink and clank on the deck, adjacent towers open up with crew-served machine guns, complemented by the occasional automatic grenade launcher. 

The thump, whistle, and ka-boom of artillery rattles our ears, blowing giant funnels of ass-gerbils up in the air.  Jets scream by, dropping 2000-pound bombs into the middle of the frenzy.  Helicopter gunships fire endless streams of rockets and rotary autocannons.  In the blink of an eye, the wasteland before us turns into a warzone, riddled with gore and deadly ordnance. 

Yet the gerbils keep coming. 

“AAAAHHHH!!!”  Jake runs through a mag and slides another one in.  “FUCK YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKING GERBILS!”  It won’t be long before we’re out.

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

Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal jump out of a portal, right where Gere is bent over and ass-gerbil-ing like crazy.  “Sheeee-it, gerbils?  Ain’t no match for the power of kuh-RATTY!”  Chuck throws a denim-clad roundhouse, killing thousands of gerbils and hitting Gere right in the pucker.  It immediately closes up as Steven bearhugs his face, grinding Richard’s nose into his disgusting-ass neckbeard. 

“The odor is horrid,” Seagal deadpans.  “An unholy mixture of smegma and feces.”  As Richard screams his fucking tits off, Seagal throws a glance at Chuck.  “After we’re done, would you like to meditate on our respective assholes?”

“Hell naw!” Chuck sneers.  “That ain’t what mirrors are for—yer supposed to oil yerself up, then watch yourself doing butt-nekkid bicep curls!”

Weird, but okay.  I’m just glad we’re safe from the gerbils.

Has a radioactive-waste-powered Richard Gere delivered an ultimatum to your post-apocalypse community?  Never fear!  Buy my books, summon Chuck and Steven, and save your people from a tsunami of ass-gerbils!

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