Taylor Swift reclines on her lizard-skin sofa, holding a glass of whale-sperm wine. “You’re an award-winning Man Whore. To say I’m expecting a lot would be a massive understatement. Now get to Man Whore-ing, you sluttalicious he-trollop.”
I clear my throat. “Um…ok. Put on your underbib so you don’t stain the couch.” I saunter toward her and brush the hair from my eyes.
She spit-takes into her half-full glass. “I book the highest-rated fuckpig in the entire history of cock for hire, and the best you can do is a goddamn FOREHEAD REVEAL??? Try again, peasant!”
Shit. Time to whip out the big guns (gun, singular, would be more accurate). So I walk to the door of her office, adjust my peen so the head is poking out, then turn around and saunter back toward her.
She immediately starts salivating. “That’s what I’M TALKING ABOUT!” She punches her own face like a meth’d up linebacker, and begins hooting like an inmate at a top-tier strip club. “I can see the girth and curve right through your pants! Holy shit, it looks like a baby’s arm holding an apple, offering it up to the goddamn heavens!”
“Pretty sweet, huh? Thanks to a much-welcome genetic quirk, it also tastes like the award-winning pièce de résistance from season 5 of the Great British Bake—”
“RRRGHHH!” Travis Kelce explodes through the wall, flooding the air with plaster and mortar, and spear-tackles my ass with his giant sweaty body. “How could you, Taylor?” Veins bulge from his forehead and neck. “HOW COULD YOU???”
She glances at her bare-skinned wrist. “Whoops, look at the time! We’ll blow something up and chant ‘USA, USA,’ later tonight—I promise!” She grabs her purse and runs out the door.
Travis Kelce, still sitting on top of my sternum, reaches out as she flits past his side. “Wait…but you said…What the…” Then he grabs me by the lapels. “ARRRRGH—SO MUCH RAGE! GOING TO BITE RIGHT THROUGH YOUR GIANT SEXY DICK!”
Jesus CHRIST. There’s no way I can fend off a 280 lb, dick-biting neanderfuck. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Martha Stewart rockets through the ceiling, landing in a superhero crouch behind the football star. She buries her fingers in his wide-flaring nostrils, whirls into a discus-thrower spin, and throws the tight end into the wall, creating a second hole beside the one he just made. Travis bounces off a Taylor statue in the hallway, then crumples into a lifeless heap.
He looks up at Martha with tear-blurred eyes. “Muh…mercy…”
She chuckles as her shadow falls across his face. “Riddle me this: how does an alpha bitch like me spend time in prison? Trading different brands of ramen and crying at therapy? Nah, fucker, I meditate on how to beat and desecrate meatheads like you. I call it my ‘Dark Martha’ phase. And this would be…” She trails off, cants her head, and flourishes her hand in a come-on-take-a-guess gesture.
“Dark Martha…era?” Snot runs out of Travis’s ruined nose.
“Exactly.” Her grins turns sharklike, then she tosses him into the air. As he comes back down, she uppercuts him through the center of his anus—“Daaaark MARTHA!”—bisecting his torso before her hand stops inside his cro-mag skull. She proceeds to work it like a grotesque puppet: “I’m Travis Kelce,” she declares in an oafish voice. “I smell like socks and man-ass! BWAHAHAHA!”
I run out of the office, sobbing and sniveling from the sheer fucking horror. Yes, I unleashed Dark Martha, but at what cost???
AT. WHAT. COST????
*Cue the climactic part of the theme from Requiem for a Dream*
Have you been caught canoodling with a pop star, and now have to escape from her neander-fuck boyfriend? Never fear! Buy my books, summon Dark Martha, and watch as she defeats him with her anus-bisecting uppercut!
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 