I’m at the gym, doing my thing, when suddenly I’m bowled over by an indescribable stench: something like a cross between a dead Rancor and Chris Christie doing squats. I track its source: a bro taking up the power racks with bicep curls (yep, I’ll never understand it either). I walk over. “Are you wearing socks?” Bro: “No Bro; I read it’s better for power generation.” I wrinkle my nose. “Dude, you’re committing genocide in here.” I gesture to a potted plant on the window that’s visibly wilting into saggy brown death. Bro responds by giving me the finger. I grit my teeth and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Suddenly the bro is trapped in a transparent, hermetically sealed box, forced to breathe nothing but his own brand. He begins vomiting and hammering the see-through walls, screaming as his eyes water in free-running streams. He passes out and ages instantly into a wizened little corpse.