I’m at a coffee shop, plinking away at my manuscript, when I mutter under my breath, “What the hell kind of indignant thought-vomiter writes an open letter, anyway?” Dancing red dots appear over my chest. I jerk backward and my coffee cup shatters from a .300 Win Mag round. Suddenly, the table and chairs start exploding around me, and as I cover my head with my hands and roll sideways, I glimpse a platoon of open-letter enthusiasts in the building opposite mine. I crouch-walk behind the counter, turtling up as a 40mm grenade screams through the window and vaporizes the espresso machine. Over the carnage I hear: “OPEN LETTERS ARE HOW WE GROW OUR SELF-IMPORTANCE! HOW DARE YOU CRITICIZE US!” I yell back, “TRY STRUCTURING YOUR APPEAL THROUGH COMMONALITY RATHER THAN HIGH-HANDED CONDEMNATIONS! OH—AND DO SOME SQUATS AND RUN SOME HILLS! I CAN SMELL YOUR LACK OF TESTOSTERONE!” A scream of rage greets my reply, and the volume of fire increases. I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. I look up and see Ernest Hemingway parachuting toward my attackers, twirling his mustache and slugging back whiskey. He takes a long swig and belches. They start firing at him but he cuts his chute with a knife and drops into their midst. He raises his fists in an old-timey boxing stance and begins clocking dudes in the face. They try shooting at him but he punches the bullets out of the air—nothing can harm a whiskey-fueled Hemingway!