Frosty, arctic death swirls across me. I’m being thrown left and right; not by a true, nature-generated wind, but by the evil howls of an Emo-poet. I’ve given an honest critique of his soul-stealing thought-vomit but it was not taken well. Tiny icicles have formed on my eyebrows and earlobes. White, patchy crystals scale across my face. My genitalia resembles a baby acorn. I reach a shuddering, tremulous hand toward my eReader and open it to Echo. Magic flash. Shaquille O’ Neal appears beside me and throws a sweat-soaked workout sock straight down the poet’s gullet. A panicked grunt erupts from his lips—HHRRGH—and he drops to his knees, choking and gagging. His lips turns purple, and a second later, a ghostly stream of ectoplasm with a faintly visible face arises from his mouth. His body slumps forward, eyes dead and glassy.