I’m staying with my buddy out at his farm. Suddenly, terrified moos wake us from our sleep. We run outside. I’m holding a winmag and he’s got a shotgun. The next thing we see chills us to the soul: grammar nerds, hunched over the corpses of eviscerated cows, pulling long strings of organs out from their guts and gulping them down. The neighbors, woken by the noise, have also come out. They’re all similarly armed. “OPEN FIRE!” I roar. The grammar nerds all charge us in a Gollum-worthy scrabble, and even though we’re letting loose with a hail of gunfire, they’re tearing into our ranks with fingers that end in sharp, red pens. Farmers are falling by the dozen; I see splatters of blood paint the air and let off curls of steam as they hit the dew-laden grass. To my right is a yellow-fanged grammar nerd, screeching into the night. It locks eyes with me before it breaks a farmer’s neck and begins feasting on his face. Open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A black-robed figure walks onto the field, commanding the attention of nerd and farmer alike. The nerds inch back on all fours, hissing menacingly….then they charge. The figure throws back his robe, in one hand he ignites a lightsaber, in the other he’s holding a .50 cal machine gun. He begins slicing apart the nerds, leaving arms and legs strewn across the grass, while holding dozens back with a barrage of ordnance. Me and the farmers hightail it out of there.