I’m driving through a rich neighborhood when I see a horde of primly dressed mothers emerge from a fleet of SUVs and walk toward a school in perfect lockstep, moving in uncanny unison. For a second their eyes flash red. What the hell? I park my car off to the side and quietly follow. I trail them into a schoolroom where they all sit in a precise circle, hands folded, ankles crossed. One of them gets up and starts speaking. It’s a PTA meeting. She finishes, then says, “Now on to our real business.” A tuxedoed butler wheels in a velvet-draped cage. He uncovers it; it’s filled with baby elephants, puppies, koalas, and a naked, trembling dungeons and dragons nerd. the PTA mothers all produce a fork and a bowie knife. My eyes widen. I blurt, “WHAT THE HELL?” (Ha! I KNEW that’s what happened at PTA meetings!) Red-glowing eyes turn toward me and suddenly I’m running for my life. They skitter toward me over the walls and ceiling. I run outside, chased by a legion of demonatrixes. Open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. I’m on a telepathic link with the president. “Mr. President, I need an airstrike ASAP!” He thinks back, “Sure thing, Kent! We still owe you for that time you found Chuck Norris and the two of you saved the world from alien lizard-folk. I’m sending our best, as-of-yet experimental cutting-edge precision weaponry. Get low buddy, it’s still gonna be danger-close.” I run under the playground equipment. Cover my ears and open my mouth. The whine of jets slice through the sky, and I hear the glorious sound of demons screaming as they’re enveloped with thermite.