New Agers have taken over the world. Meat is now a black-market commodity, crystal necklaces are a must (the more chintzy the better), and Whole Foods is the only remaining grocery store. I’m making a back-alley deal with a frightened hamburger dealer who furtively opens his trench coat to reveal a variety of steaks and chops. Suddenly a pony-tailed giant springs from the shadows and pulls him to the ground. Before the meat-dealer can scream, another new-ager who’s wearing a tank-top that displays weaponized shocks of BO pit-hair, jumps onto the meat-dealer and smothers him in the gnarliest tangle of armpit gross. I see flesh steam away from under those nasty tangles, and when Armpit Guy stands up, I see that nothing is left of the meat-dealer’s head but a bleached white skull. The two turn to me, both of their douchey goatees in full wisp. Armpit guy says, “My name is Dharma, and my partner is Windsong. We see that you’re carrying a prime rib. That’s an offense that’s punishable by death.” A dozen other gaunt-cheeked, B12-deprived, mealy-mouthed hippies emerge from the shadows and surround me. No time to lose. I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Ron Swanson, an old-timey boxer, and some rando lumberjack roar out of an interdimensional portal and start bashing heads in. To my delight, the boxer fights with his palms up and is sporting a Ringling Bros’ style, on-the-verge-of-creepy-yet-managing-to-stay-novel mustache. Good god, what beauty!