As I’m walking down the street, I glance into an alley and spot a woman yanking her pants down, crouch on the pavement, and give birth to a dooker with a teeth-clenching HNNGHH!
Holy shit (literally)! Is that…MARTHA STEWART???
She yanks her pants up, grabs my throat, lifts me off my feet, and pins me against the alley wall. As I’m gasping and twisting, trying to pry her fingers off my neck, she snarls, “I’m Martha Stewart—I can shit on the street when I damn well please!” Then she mutters, “You know what? Fuck it—no one can know.” Her lips curve up in a malicious grin. “Cup of cheese—you know what that is? It’s when you cup a fart and fling it into your enemy’s face. Mine are straight-up skin-melting lethal.” She narrows her eyes, focusing her chi into her burgeoning colon, and reaches down with her free hand.
Not like this—NOT LIKE THIS! I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
“HANG ON KENT, I’M COMING!” Superman bursts through a cloud—cue the lens flare as he comes rocketing in toward Martha’s head.
Before he can touch her, Martha flings the cup of cheese into Superman’s face, and screams, “Last night’s dinner!”
He immediately starts coughing and gagging, stumbling and weaving as he clutches at his throat. “Oh God!” he sputters. “It kills, it kills!”
She strides toward him with an evil grin. “There’s more where that came from. You just had a taste of the appetizer—get ready to maow down the entire buffet!”
As her shadow grows long and eclipses his body, his eyes widen in abject horror. I book it out of the alley, sobbing and blubbering uncontrollably.
Yes, I managed to flee Martha’s wrath, but at what cost???
AT. WHAT. COST????
*Cue the climactic portion of the theme for Requiem for a Dream*
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