Just like in a cheap action movie, I’m facing off against a passel of stylishly yet menacingly dressed Eurotrash villains, all in dark, business-casual wear with sunglasses or quirky hair or an earring or some obvious device to let everyone know that they’re ostensibly professional killers with an added edge of you’re-not-the-boss-of-me. I’ve pursued these murderous A-holes across continents and time zones in a race to acquire an aerosol bioweapon that will turn 90% of humanity into the worst of nerds: the D&D tyrant, that mewling dick who’s read the rulebooks a billion times over, and loves providing a rationale for why you CAN’T do something as opposed to why you CAN (they’ve gone far beyond the confines of D&D; I’m sure all of you have dealt with this hideous form of poindexter at work or in the family). I’m using the last dregs of my strength to toss a goon off the side of a 50 story building, when the Big Evil Guy whose identity I’m still unaware of steps into a chopper and takes to the skies. Rotor wash tosses my hair as I sprint toward the helicopter, take a flying leap off the edge of the building, and grab a skid. I do a quick muscle-up, clamber onto the chopper, and lock eyes with Big Evil Guy. He’s none other than…STEVEN SEAGAL???? He closes with me and gets me in a headlock. Typically, this would be easy to escape from, but I’m so tired I can barely lift my arms at this point. As I try to secure my hooks so I can reverse the position and break the hold by straight arming his head, he digs in harder, and the world starts going hazy. His gross, pizza-specked neck beard grinds into my head. Oh God…I’m going to die while smelling week-old Papa John’s. He begins grunting and laughing as he forces my face into his chest, forcing my nose to have nonconsensual sex with his unwashed man-boobs. A spurt of vomit surges up my throat, but because my mouth is clamped shut, it stops at my lips, pushing out what little air I have in my throat. Out of options. I murmur: “Palamedes Publishing.” Magic flash. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a wing-suited man screaming toward the open side door of the chopper. He zips into the aircraft, stopping himself with a roundhouse kick to the wall, then yanks Steven off me. The A-team theme erupts out of nowhere as I see that it’s Chuck motha duckin’ Norris! He lifts Steven up one-handed, then, just like when we used to creepily think it was alright in the 50s to smack around kids, Chuck starts slapping-backhanding-slapping-backhanding Steven across the face. Seagal sags against the wall, the bioweapon canister tumbling from his unconscious fingers. Chuck lifts me up, wrinkles his nose and says, “Dude’s neckbeard is filled with pizza. Gross. Neck beards should always be impeccable and evoke an inarticulable sexual desire, like mine does.” He turns to me just as I vomit all over Steven. I break down crying from the sheer horror of Steven’s lack of hygiene, and Chuck cradles me like a baby. He makes gentle shushing noises. “It’s okay Kent, it’s okay….no more pizza neckbeard.”
If you’re about to be involved in a life-or-death struggle for the fate of the free world, but you’re afraid of going after the head honcho due to his gross-ass neckbeard, there’s a solution for that. Palamedes publishing. Check out their revolutionary Responsive Books software here: Responsive Books. Check out their poetry here: Manhattan They are currently assisting me with the process of getting Echo Volumes 1 & 2 in paperback. Right now I’m in the middle of reworking Echo 1, trying to get all my noob mistakes out. If you refrain from buying it due to my amateurish writing style, a product of my first ventures into fiction, then I totally understand, and I’ll announce when I re-upload an updated version. If you buy it anyways, then many thanks! Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle
Kent Wayne 
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