Where the fuck did I put my sandals?  I took em off so I could get on that stupid-ass waterslide, but now I have no idea where they are…

I look around my boss’s yard, scanning for my beloved Crocs.  Nothing.  Nada.

Fucking stupid-ass party…he made his son’s birthday party into a mandatory event, because the paste-eating booger-picker has exactly three and a half friends (apparently, a stuffed animal counts as half a friend in his eight-year old brain).  Yeah I know—you can’t “force” employees to attend your kid’s birthday party by threatening to fire them, but you can load em up with a shitload of work, and dial the passive-aggressive cuntiness up by a factor of 11.  My boss, like a lot of bosses, is a fucking master at it.

Oh, there they are—by the birthday cake table.  I breathe a relieved sigh, but just as I step into the right Croc, one of the kids flashes by and throws something into my sandal.

SQUIIIIISHHHHH.

My heel lowers down, smushing a fresh turd into the rubberized grid.  Kid poop oozes across my sole, pushing between my toes like evil playdoh.

I level a shaking finger at the diminutive perpetrator (surprise, surprise, it’s my boss’s son Hayden_ and yell, “You vile piece of FUCK!  Where the FUCK do you get off, throwing shit into a stranger’s—”

The music cuts off.  Everyone is staring at me.  My boss crosses his arms and gives me a long, stony glare.

“But…but…he threw poop in my…” I try to plead my case with a series of frustrated gestures, like Larry David trying to explain himself right after he’s just fucked the pooch.

It gets me nowhere.  My boss reaches in his pocket, unscrews a bottle of pills, and shakes a few of them into his palm.  “You’ll pay for your insolence, Kent.”  Then he throws them into the air and yells, “BRING ME HIS LIVER!”

Hayden and his friends leap into the air, snapping dozens of adderall down in less than a second.  They hit the ground running, snarling and hissing as they charge toward me on all fours.

Holy FUCKLES!

I run into my car, gun the engine, and peel into the street.  A moment later I’m tearing through the San Francisco suburbs, my little Nissan roaring and screeching.  I glance at the rearview and my heart drops into my stomach—the adderall-powered kids are tearing up architecture left and right, ripping through lawns and fences like meth’d up versions of Looney Tunes Tas.  SHIT!

The speedometer creeps past a hundred.  Yank the wheel to the right, work the e-brake and ease into a drift, and then I’m rocketing down another street.  The kids are gaining.  My eyes widen as they whirl and slice through an unsuspecting dogwalker; one moment I’m looking at a flesh-and-blood human being, and then a moment later, he’s reduced to a bleached pile of bones.  Holy Mary Mother of CHRIST!

No options left.  I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

A ghost pepper burrito appears in my lap.  Game on, fuckers.

I reach down and jam it into my mouth, my eyes bulging as if I was fellating Dwayne Johnson’s roided up fist.  A quick, pained squinch as it goes down my throat, and then my ass is primed and ready.

I roll down the window, yank down my pants, and monkey-crouch on the driver’s seat so I can keep steering while I stick my cheeks out into the wind.

“NOW IS THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT!”

And with that war-cry, I relax my sphincter.  The ghost pepper burrito does what it’s supposed to; it blows out my ass and transforms into a sickly green whirlwind filled with tentacled horrors and chitinous monsters.  Glimmer-eyed skulls laugh and howl as they spin round and round along the edges of the unholy cyclone, filling the air with a booming, “OOH HOO HA HA!  OOH HOO HOO—AHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!”

The adderall-powered tykes are caught in the hurricane’s gyre, yowling like dying hyenas who’re getting buttfucked.  I sit back down and keep driving, blubbering and sobbing in abject relief.

Adderall-powered kids—holy FUCK that was close!  But as always…

Kent Wayne escapes again!  Ha HA!

😀

 

Has some disrespectful rugrat thrown a steaming piece of poop into your beloved right sandal?  Never fear!  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  Vol.4 on Kindle here:  Vol. 4 on Kindle  Echo Omnibus here:  Echo Omnibus  Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here:  Combined Edition  Musings, Volume 1 is available here:  Musings, Volume 1  If you wanna hear me babble on about anything and everything, and strain my FREAKIN’ BRAIN, then here’s a link to my podcast:  Strained Brains!  It is on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, and Google Play!  Please give it a listen and a five-star review!  Here’s the miscellaneous gear that I use to try and become an uber-human:  Optimization, and last but not least, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com!  Go check out his computer-based wizardry  🙂 🙂 😀

Hold on!  I just got approved to be an Amazon affiliate!  If you’re going to buy ANY product from Amazon, and you’d like to support my efforts for absolutely free, then simply click on one of the Echo links I’ve provided—they’ll send you to Echo’s Amazon page—and THEN buy whatever product you wish.  Amazon gives me a small referral fee each time this happens!  In this manner you can support my books, musings, podcast, zany ads, or my adventures along the noble path known as The Way of The Man Child WITHOUT spending any more money than you were already going to!  Should you do this, I vow to send you a silent blessing, causing your genitals to adopt the optimum size, shape, smell, and death-ray attachment of choice that paralyzes your enemies with fear and envy!  Entire worlds will bow before your nether parts!  😲💪 😜

Whoa…did I eat too many magic mushrooms or something?  This is…this is…

I look around in dazed wonder, gaping at the ethereal columns of streaming iridescence, and the translucent haze beneath my feet.  It’s bowing slightly from the weight of my body, ringing my shoes with inward-dipping lines of distorted air.  Phantasmagoric creatures drift languidly by; they look like alien manta rays, or extradimensional jelly fish.

“Approach, Kent Wayne.”  A disembodied voice rings through my skull; it sounds like an electronic harp combined with an angelic choir.

“Um…okay.”  I start walking, moving across a makeshift path bounded by the columns of iridescence.  When I draw abreast of one, it dematerializes into a cloud of dancing motes.

Wow…so COOL…

I walk past scores of columns, causing them all to break into radiant fragments.  Eventually, I find myself standing before a throne.  Sitting upon it is a tall, beautiful lady who appears to be made of flashing rainbow.  It purls and slides across her skin, like a spectrum of color caught in an oil slick.

“I have something for you.”  She holds up a bowl filled with shimmering star-shine—light made liquid.

“What is it?”  I walk up the stairs leading to her throne.

“It’s Beauty, Kent—pure Beauty.  Drink deeply…you deserve it, for perpetuating novelty with each keystroke.  You’ve been writing stories for so long…you deserve a reward.”

I stop before her and take the bowl.  I lift it to my face, close my eyes, and inhale its scent.  My God…

“It smells like Pretty,” I murmur, opening my eyes.

She gives me a wide, luminescent smile.  “Drink, Kent.”

I take the first gulp, and my mouth starts burning.  I drop to my knees, clutching my belly, and the bowl clatters from my grasp.  Oh fuck…it tastes like unwashed assholes…

“What…what…”  I can’t speak; I’m coughing too hard.

The lady on the throne begins shifting and changing.  Fuck me in the goat-ass:  it’s Grammar Nazi Prime.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, momentarily concealing his beady little pupils with a flash of light off the flats of his lenses.  A malevolent smile widens his chinless, testosterone-free face.

“How does it taste, Kent?  A red-ink brew, made specifically for you.”

“Red…ink?”  I gaze at the contents of the bowl I just drank from, now scattered across the floor.

It wasn’t Beauty.  FUCK.

It’s essay correction ink.  Red as the balls on a ninth-ring demon.

“You…you…”  My  vision starts hazing.  I collapse onto my side, gasping in shuddering, wheezing hitches.  Through the blur of my tears, I can see him smiling.

I’m about to die.  So I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

KRACKA-FUCKING-THOOM!

Soccer Mom Prime materializes in a blast of swirling blue halos, hovering a few inches above the ground.  She throws her head back; the joy of her physical emergence shows in her semi-orgasmic expression—in the barely audible moan that escapes her lips.

Her form solidifies.  Long, sleek hair dances around her shoulders, set aflutter by the intensity of her arrival.  A gleam runs across her Elven-steampunk armor, locking it firmly into place with blinding twinkles.  She glances at me, raises her hand, and utters a single, resonant phrase:

“As you were, Man Whore.”

Magic swirls out from her open palm, weaving and lashing into brilliant tendrils.  They surround me in a network of elegant, sweeping slashes.  In a few seconds…

Holy Shamoley!  I’m CURED!

SMP assesses me with a flick of her eyes, nods, then strides toward Grammar Nazi Prime.

“No!”  His eyes widen.  “Stay BACK!”

“You who would suppress the creative impulse, the sacred grace that is woven through our being…”  Her voice rises in pitch, shaking the aether with its sonorous boom.  “You who would persecute the Conduit known as Kent, and deprive the world of his ineffable genitals, the three-time award winning Cock of Legend…”

“Stay back!” he howls.  “STAY BACK!”

“I.  CAST.  YOU.  OUT!”  She crosses both arms to her chest, then leans forward and slashes them out to either side.  An undulant, glowing wave erupts from the gesture and ripples toward the Grammar Nazi.  When it makes contact, he flies apart into an ugly mess of red-and-black twists.  Before he disappears, he manages an anguished, protracted cry:

“NOOOOOOOooooooo…..”

And then he’s gone.  There’s a long, hanging silence.

“Uh…so what next?” I ask SMP.

She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes.  “Come on Kent—I didn’t save the ‘Cock of Legend’ just for kicks.  Unzip your pants—lemme see that sausage.”

You can imagine the rest.  Needless to say, the Cock of Legend had a grand old time.

😀

 

Have you been fooled into drinking the disgusting essence of nitnoy Grammar?  Never fear!  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  Vol.4 on Kindle here:  Vol. 4 on Kindle  Echo Omnibus here:  Echo Omnibus  Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here:  Combined Edition  Musings, Volume 1 is available here:  Musings, Volume 1  If you wanna hear me babble on about anything and everything, and strain my FREAKIN’ BRAIN, then here’s a link to my podcast:  Strained Brains!  It is on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, and Google Play!  Please give it a listen and a five-star review!  Here’s the miscellaneous gear that I use to try and become an uber-human:  Optimization, and last but not least, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com!  Go check out his computer-based wizardry  🙂 🙂 😀

Hold on!  I just got approved to be an Amazon affiliate!  If you’re going to buy ANY product from Amazon, and you’d like to support my efforts for absolutely free, then simply click on one of the Echo links I’ve provided—they’ll send you to Echo’s Amazon page—and THEN buy whatever product you wish.  Amazon gives me a small referral fee each time this happens!  In this manner you can support my books, musings, podcast, zany ads, or my adventures along the noble path known as The Way of The Man Child WITHOUT spending any more money than you were already going to!  Should you do this, I vow to send you a silent blessing, causing your genitals to adopt the optimum size, shape, smell, and death-ray attachment of choice that paralyzes your enemies with fear and envy!  Entire worlds will bow before your nether parts!  😲💪 😜

I have no idea what to write.

I just wrote that because I subscribe to the premise that when you’re honest about how you feel, you’re able to express your feelings in an honest manner.  Erroneous logic?  Maybe…all I know is that in my experience, that sentiment is 100% true.  In my case, it is inductively sound.

Still—gotta write an ad for my books, right?  Believe it or not, when I write an ad, I’m sometimes winging it from the very first sentence.  That’s what I’m doing right now.  So now that I’m all warmed up, let’s reach in the ol’ Kent Wayne Brain and see what’s cooking…

 

PKEW PKEW PKEW!

Geysers of dirt erupt all around me.  I hunch lower and flee from a barrage of turbo-laser madness, raining down from the Type 34s that are screaming past.  A fellow Space Marine runs up alongside me and grabs my shoulder.

“THERE!”  He points at a ten-foot tall cluster of boulders.  “GET BEHIND COVER!”

We break for the boulders, our servo-powered exo-skeletons whining and clanking as we push them to their limits.  We both know that those stupid boulders are a poor excuse for cover—they won’t shield us from a direct hit—but they might keep us from getting sliced apart by this goddamn shrapnel.

We hunker down behind the boulders. 

We’re cut off from our squad; once those Type 34s started cutting loose on us, we lost all semblance of tactical coherence.  A four-man fireteam is the basic element you need to maneuver through a battlespace, but thanks to those damn 34s, we’ve all been scattered to the goddamn winds.  Now, we’re just a couple of idiots slinging some pea-shooters.

“Fuck,” I hiss.  34 ordnance rips into the ground and flings geysers of dirt into the air.  It’s close enough to send showers of pebbles raining down on our armor.

The other Marine—I can see by his chest plate that his name is Murkowski, one of the older, saltier guys—wipes the grime off his half-bubble visor.  “My two-way’s blown.  Are your comms still jammed?”

Our two-way comms respond to thought, courtesy of the neuro-link implant they’ve installed in our auditory cortexes.  I send a mental directive to our tactical operations center, but all I get back is snowy static.

“Two-way’s a no-go.”  I shake my head.  “This might be it, Murk.”

Murk’s eyes tick back and forth.  “If we link up with our guys…try and flank their forward observers…”

“We have no ideas where any of them are,” I say.  “And their observers are probably guarded by a shitload of grunts.  I’m betting snipers as well.  Wait,” my eyes light with hope, “there’s still one option.”

Murk opens his mouth to ask what that is, but before he can ask, I reach into my chest pouch, withdraw my eReader, and open it to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

“YEEEE-HAAAWWWW!!!”

A bulky armored form descends from the clouds and crashes through a Type 34, transforming it into a spectacular ball of fire and smoke.  He lands in an anime-style crouch, hitting with enough force to leave a small impact crater and cause a ring of distorted air to ripple outward from the point of impact.

Holy fucking shit—it’s Chuck Fucking Norris.  He’s clad in denim-coated armor, spotted with camouflage American flags and angry bald eagles with roided-out, humanoid bodies.

“COME GET SOME, YA COMMIE BASTERDS!”  He rises from his crouch and bounds hundreds of feet up, throwing a storm of roundhouses in one-hundred-kick combos.  Type 34s explode into fireballs, lighting the sky with brilliant bursts of red and orange.  

Me and Murk slowly rise, gaping at The Chuck in utter awe.

“Fuck me,” Murk murmurs.

“I second that.”

By this point, Chuck’s taken out half their air.  He lands, throws his arms back and his chest out, and thrusts his hips toward the sky.  A giant, mechanized penis extends from his crotch—CLANK CLANK CLANK—its shaft coated in true-blue denim.

“ ’MERCA MOTHERFRIGGERS!”  Chuck’s destructo-cock unleashes a spit-fire barrage of apple pies, all coated in red-white-and-blue frosting.  The scrumptious pastries aren’t dense enough to puncture the 34s, but they’re forceful enough to splatter the canopies with a delicious blend of Granny Smith and Golden Delicious.  They’re also forceful enough to knock the skycraft off course; they start veering into each other or spiraling into the ground.  More explosions light the horizon.

Chuck looks over at us as his mechanical wiener bucks and chatters, destroying our enemies with All That is ’Merca.  His karate-champ eyes flash with insanity.  “SAY BOYS—YOU WANNA GET NEKKID AFTER THIS AND DO SOME CURLS IN FRONT OF A MIRROR?”

Me and Murk exchange a glance:  HELL no.

“Ah…I think we’re good, Chuck,” I call back.

“SUIT YERSELF, YA WEAK-SAUCE PUSSIES!”  He turns back to the sky, bringing down another five-craft wing of Type 34s. 

Me and Murk let our rifles droop to our sides.  In all our years of service, this is the craziest shit we’ve ever seen.

Thank you, Chuck Norris:  American Icon, Genuine Crazy Person, and Destructo-Cock Pie-Launcher.

 

Are you about to get gang-fucked by a horde of merciless space-troopers?  Never fear!  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  Vol.4 on Kindle here:  Vol. 4 on Kindle  Echo Omnibus here:  Echo Omnibus  Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here:  Combined Edition  Musings, Volume 1 is available here:  Musings, Volume 1  If you wanna hear me babble on about anything and everything, and strain my FREAKIN’ BRAIN, then here’s a link to my podcast:  Strained Brains!  It is on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, and Google Play!  Please give it a listen and a five-star review!  Here’s the miscellaneous gear that I use to try and become an uber-human:  Optimization, and last but not least, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com!  Go check out his computer-based wizardry  🙂 🙂 😀

Hold on!  I just got approved to be an Amazon affiliate!  If you’re going to buy ANY product from Amazon, and you’d like to support my efforts for absolutely free, then simply click on one of the Echo links I’ve provided—they’ll send you to Echo’s Amazon page—and THEN buy whatever product you wish.  Amazon gives me a small referral fee each time this happens!  In this manner you can support my books, musings, podcast, zany ads, or my adventures along the noble path known as The Way of The Man Child WITHOUT spending any more money than you were already going to!  Should you do this, I vow to send you a silent blessing, causing your genitals to adopt the optimum size, shape, smell, and death-ray attachment of choice that paralyzes your enemies with fear and envy!  Entire worlds will bow before your nether parts!  😲💪 😜