The lights above the airlocks go from red to green. Deep-space paneling hisses open, and the Imperial March blasts through the air as legions of dead-eyed hippies walk aboard our Corellian star cruiser. Me and my squadmates are laying down a heavy blanket of laser fire, but horror upon horrors, the hippies have figured out how to weaponize their BO; it bubbles out in rank, particulate-threaded shields that extend roughly three feet from their bodies. My eyes widen in horror as I see their BO shielding scrape the walls of our ship; the graphene double-weave that comprises our hulls instantly browns and buckles with a horrendous shriek. My hands shake as I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A giant wave of powdered lava soap washes over the hippies, dousing them in a cloud of white. They pause in their tracks, blink for a second, then twist into agonized shapes, screaming like vampires in sunlight. The flesh melts off their bones and they fall to the floor, writhing and cursing their existential antithesis: personal hygiene products.