I typically lift at a bro-heavy gym. I’m pretty meticulous about maintaining my physique, so they don’t bat an eye when I’m doing my thing. Due to the fact that I can put up decent weight, they assume I yell sports’ star names when I throw wadded paper into the trash can, or chant “USA, USA!” when something explodes.
Little do they know—I look like a meathead, but that’s as far as it goes.
Case in point: I’m watching my favorite new addiction while I’m blasting out reps. That’s right—Kpop Demon Hunters. And I am INTO it. As Jinu sacrifices himself to save Rumi, I start arguing with my phone screen. “No, you IDIOT, there’s another way to keep them alive, you don’t have to—”
“Why are you shouting?” A douche-bro with muscled straining man-teats (made ten times worse by the fact that he’s wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top), walks up and peers into my phone. “What the—” He straightens in shock, cups his mouth, and yells at the rest of the gym while pointing at my face. “HE REFUSES TO CONFORM TO OUR INSECURITY-DRIVEN TASTES—HE’S WATCHING GODDAMN KPOP DEMON HUNTERS!!!”
Cries of outrage erupt from the bros. “I HATE HIM!” And: “HIS DICK IS PROBABLY BIGGER THAN ALL OF OURS COMBINED!” Followed by: “UNDOUBTEDLY!” And: “I WOULD BET MY LIFE ON IT!” It culminates in a howl of bone-quaking rage, then they all sprint toward me with murder in their eyes.
Holy. SHIT. I am seconds away from being torn to shreds.
No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
An interdimensional portal appears in the middle of the gym. The douche-bros’ hot-ass moms pour from its center, and immediately begin chastising them. Their names throw me for a goddamn loop—it sounds like a list of Ivy-league roofie-slingers. I’m talking Daxtons, Hunters, Codys, Jaggers, Baylors, Zaydens, Sawyers…(As far as the normal ones, I’m guessing they’re horrendously misspelled—since when did it become fashionable to name your kid Qris, Zaquiri, Ty-lor, or S5imon? I mean, what in the FUCK?)
A mom flings an arm at me and screams, “Don’t you know who this is??? It’s 2025’s top-rated Man Whore!”
I rub the back of my neck and hiss through my teeth. “I mean…”
“Oh hush.” She flaps a dismissive hand at me. “Take off your clothes—lemme get to work on that top-tier womb-hammer.”
Her son (I forgot his name—I think it’s Jaxsynn, $eth, or maybe Johnorea) shoots her a look of abject horror. “Mom!”
One of the other moms adds, “And sing ‘Soda Pop’ while you’re widening our vajeens.”
“No!” The douche-bros’ drop to their knees and clutch the air with their hands. “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
I clap my hands and rub them briskly together, smiling like the cat that got the mothafuckin’ cream.
OH yeah! HEH heh heh! Kent Wayne wins again!
😀
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Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha 