A rain of meteoric death is falling from the skies. The new-agers have ironically invoked the coming of Kai Nak-Klai’iktan, the demon cryptlord that has long disguised himself as all things annoyingly hippie (you could tell those new-agers were subject to dark forces, couldn’t you? No one can be that annoying and not worship the seed of evil). His mouth—a swirling, tooth-filled, hurricane vortex—takes up the entire horizon. Gross, tumorous comets are streaking down from the heavens. When they’re a hundred yards up, they burst open into clusters of gibbering insectoids. Everyone’s running through San Francisco streets like Godzilla has just emerged from the ocean. I turn and see one of the comets coming toward me and eject the equivalent of Hell’s own Special Forces: A swarm of emasculated dad-bodded middle managers, ready to swarm the world with passive-aggressivity. I fumble my eReader open to Echo. Magic flash. Gandalf the Grey appears beside me. Three whirling gestures of his glowing staff and the new-agers gather into a giant, patchouli-dripping ball. One upward swipe and he sends it skyward, toward the swirling hurricane-vortex that is the maw of the demon cryptlord. The skies echo with a gulping noise, then the sound of a gorge violently rising, then a torrent of sobbing. No one can take in that much BO and not roll a tear—not even a cryptlord.