What the fuck? I wake up and glance at my bedside alarm. It’s 1 am, and someone’s blasting the punching bag in my garage. I rack my 9mil, get out of bed, and slowly make my way down the stairs.
I line up my muzzle, eye, and foot, and start cutting the pie on the doorway to my garage. Halfway through, I spot Luke Skywalker, wailing away on the goddamn heavy bag, screaming “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!” Each time he swears, he lands a hate-fueled punch.
“HEY!” I yell. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re DOING?”
He spins around, tears in his eyes, and levels a finger at my face. “I kissed my SISTER, man! I’m a fucking SISTER-KISSER!”
“Lucas wrote that in before he fleshed out the trilogy! Let it go, fucker!”
“And then I drank alien titty milk!” He drops to his knees and sobs into his hands. “AH GOD THE ALIEN TITTY MILK!”
I eject my mag, rack the slide to the rear, pop out the round in the chamber, and put it all on a nearby shelf. “Look, man, I’m sure it wasn’t—”
A hooded figure drifts out of the shadow. “Intentional?” He steeples his fingers and cackles with glee. “Oh I assure you—it was completely intentional.”
“No.” Luke scuttles back on his hands and butt, huddling in the corner and curling into a ball. “NO!”
“Yes.” The hooded figure pulls back his hood, revealing himself to be none other than—
“GEORGE FUCKING LUCAS!” Luke clutches the air and screams in anguish.
“Don’t forget about me.” A second hooded figure emerges from the shadows, noticeably more rotund than George Lucas. He pulls back his hood.
Holy shit—George R.R. MARTIN???
“I’ve come to finish the job.” His grin widens into an evil rictus. “You think sister-kissing is gross? Ever seen what I did with the Lannisters?”
Luke screams louder than he did on Bespin, when Vader cut off his motherfucking arm. “NOOOOOOOO!!!!”
“You!” I thrust a finger at the sister-focused perverts. “YOU’RE the reason I can’t scroll through xvideos without incestuous garbage popping up on my feed! I don’t mind when someone gets stuck in a dryer, but—”
“Quiet.” George Lucas reaches toward me, curling his fingers and Dark Side-choking me. “My creation will bow to my wishes and whims.”
“HRRKK.” I claw at my throat, but there’s no real hand—I’m about to be murdered by a neck-bearded Sith-lord.
Fuck it. 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.
“You think you’re gross?” Steven Seagal plods into the center of the room, clad in a pair of yellow-spotted whitey-tighties. “You don’t know the first thing about gross.” He proceeds to pull a fly-ridden chicken leg from the depths of his greasy-ass chest-hair.
Lucas and Martin immediately start retching. I’m talking projectile-vomit that’s so goddamn hard it ricochets off the walls and the floor, and envelops the room in a maze of zig-zagging puke. Thankfully, I’m near the door, so while my eyes start watering and my gorge starts rising, I don’t get affected nearly as bad. (Luke’s puking and shitting along with the Georges, but he’s a gross-ass sister-kisser, so fuck him.)
While I stagger away, I glimpse Lucas passed out in a pool of his own vomit. Martin is on his hands and his knees, valiantly trying to cling to life. He moans, “It kills, it kills…” before he collapses and starts jerking and twitching.
Welp, that’s what you get for pushing your sister-fetish bullshit!
Kent Wayne wins again!
😀
Have you been accosted by some gross-ass Georges? Never fear! Buy my books, summon Steven Seagal, and make them choke on their own fucking vomit!
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 