Santa-Con. I’m walking down the street, minding my own business, when a bunch of oafish drunks deliberately shoulder me and laugh in my face, spraying my eyes with spittle and beer. I clench my teeth and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Santa Claus appears beside me, whipping a pair of nunchucks through the air. He yells, “FACE ME, IMPOSTORS!” Every drunk on the street sees him, and in an irrational rage, they charge the two of us, the tassels on their santa hats bouncing in ironic joviality. Santa kicks the first one in the nuts, then starts smashing eye sockets with quick whips of his nunchaku. I’m holding my own, holding one on the ground and punching the crap out of him, when Santa yells, “Kent! This one’s yours!” I see the body of a drunken enemy come flying toward me; I catch it mid-air, and suplex his ass into the concrete. The rest flee in a gibbering panic.