At a bbq in the suburbs. I’ve said the wrong thing—something about not wanting kids. Every yuppie guests turns towards me and snarls. Their heads burst open and giant, phallic tentacles stream out from their flesh, revealing their true natures (Dickheads—get it?). I’m running like hell from these Cthulu-yuppies, vaulting over white picket fences and rocketing off backyard trampolines. Open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Suddenly a mob of blue-collar New Yorkers and Bostonians appears. They charge my demonic pursuers, laying them low with beer bottles, pool cues, and those fantastic Tri-State/New England one liners. Saved!