THUNK. The wall by my temple sprouts a throwing knife. “So,” my accounting professor begins, and throws another knife. THUNK. The blade quivers by my shoulder. “Are you ready to swear off writing, Kent?” THUNK. Knife by my nuts. “Swear off this…creativity?” He sneers this last word. A trick of the light turns his glasses into menacing mirrors. I say, “I—” THUNK. “I don’t—” THUNKTHUNK. My hand darts in my pocket and opens my eReader to Echo. “—THINK SO!” Magic flash. Five knives fly at me, my left hand twists in an arcane gesture, and an eldritch shield like in Dr. motha duckin’ Strange sprouts from my forearm. I deflect the knives and they clatter to the ground. My professor, long a student of the dark arts, drops his pants and screams “GAZE UPON THIS, FOOL!” Instead of genitals, he’s sporting a patch of gross, slimy tentacles, each one ending in a little demonic lizard head (Ha! KNEW that’s what happened when you did accounting for a living!) My right hand thrusts forward, its fingers bent in a clutching gesture, and luminous blaze shoots from my palm. It transforms his gross tentacle patch into its typical micro-phallus state. (Just as gross by the way, but not nearly as threatening). He drops to his knees, sobbing. Suddenly a portal opens behind him. His demon archfiend master appears behind him, a hulking, char-skinned beast. It booms, “YOU HAVE FAILED TO SPREAD MY EVIL THROUGH ACCOUNTING, AND FAILED NOW TO VANQUISH THIS AFFRONT TO THE OFFICE LIFE. FOR THIS YOU WILL SUFFER.” Clawed arms wrap around my professor and carry him screaming into nameless planes.