“HHRNNGHH!” I stifle a scream as Grammar Nazi Prime budda-budda-buddas my giant nuts, laughing with joy as they ricochet off my thighs and stomach. Once he’s done, I sag downward, tightening the links around my arms and legs—he’s rigged me to a series of junkyard chains, configured so I’m horizontally suspended at head level. That way, he can beat my sack with sadistic aplomb.
“No…” I moan. “My clit-hammers…”
“FUCK your clit-hammers!” He throws a savage right, drawing a yelp as my brain-like scrote thups back and forth. “Creative piece of big-dicked SHIT!”
“All this…” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Because you’re jealous?”
“Jealous? JEALOUS?” He clutches the air with small-cocked fury. “The instant you advertised yourself as an award-winning Man Whore, half the dating apps shut the fuck down! Now, instead of being drenched in hot-ass vajeen, I’m jerking off with a pair of cotton-tipped tweezers!”
I muster my strength and manage, “No…woman…would…”
“Shut the FUCK UP!” He blatters my ball-bag with a full-body punch. I can’t help it—I scream in a mix of rage and pain. “So now,” he pants. “We’re going to redo every trace of your digital footprint. No more goofy-ass stories, no more freewheeling website. That’s right.” His toothy grin stretches into a rictus. “I’m going to make good and damn sure you’re using ‘whom’ when you’re supposed to, no more sentence fragments, say goodbye to your made-up words…”
“My god…” I whisper. “You’re going to infect my site with your check-in-the-box horseshit.”
He examines his nails. “Been a long time coming, Wayne. You wanna be a zany fun author? Fine. But take a look at that incest-peddling beardo, the one who wrote about medieval fuck-machines—”
“George R.R.—”
“Yeah, that guy.” He waves dismissively. “You get to be a badass author, but you better look like that guy. Otherwise, life ain’t fair.” He cracks his knuckles. “Anyways, let’s finish up—gotta work on your shit-ass website.”
The whole time he’s been running his gob, I’ve been worming free of his coiled-chain restraint. Now’s my chance. I rip an arm free, reach into my shirt pocket, click my phone on, and open the eReader app to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My scrote bubbles with sentience and life; it now resembles a super-ugly version of Patrick Star from Spongebob. It doesn’t stop there—as soon as Grammar Nazi Prime turns and flees, roils of scrote bubble out from my sack and coat him in flaps of revolting Gross. He screams as the skin melts off his bones. It crescendos in a high-pitched wail—EEEEEEEE—before the ball-flesh envelops his head in wiry-haired folds.
Pity flashes through me as I stare at his desecrated corpse. Then I shrug in nonchalance.
That’s what you get fucker, for trynna inflict your stoopid-ass grammar on us freewheeling writers!
Leave a Reply