The Grammar Police have sent a lab-perfected assassin after me. He’s beaten me to a pulp, I’m hanging from my fingertips from a 50th story office, and he’s smirking down at me from the ledge. He says, “They’ve fitted me with eidetic memory, photographic reflexes, a second heart with an atomic core…you never had a chance, Kent.” One last card to play: I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Chuck Norris appears, wearing a sleeveless denim jacket open at the front (revealing his slightly gross but glorious chest hair), and throws a roundhouse kick to the assassin’s face with the power of a thousand exploding suns. The assassin flies past me and falls to his death yelling, “HOLY BAAAaaalls…” His voice trails as he plummets to his death, and The Norris reaches down and helps me to my feet.