I’m whistling to myself, walking out to the parking lot after a mind-numbing day at work dealing with TPS reports and powerpoints. Ahhh…time to work out and put in my daily word count. Suddenly, people pile onto me, slamming me onto the hood of a car. As I struggle against the press of bodies, I hear one of my coworkers yell, “Now!” An oxygen mask slips over my face and I hear sinister hissing. My nostrils instantly fill with the most rank, putrid odor I’ve ever smelt in my entire life—goddamn, it’s like I’m stuck in a room with no ventilation and Gary Busey is in there doing squats. (Who knows what that smells like…but let your imagination answer for you: Gary Busey doing squats? All sweaty and gross and old and just plain WEIRD? BLECHH!) My face is beet red, my eyes are watering, but I manage to snake a trembling hand free of my attackers’ grip and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. The Batwing screams in from the east and comes in low. It pauses above me in an anchored drift. Through the open drop-hatch, I see the Dark Knight’s face wrinkle in disgust. He soars drown from the hatch and quickly dispatches my assailants. In the hustle of strikes and throws, the mask slips off my face, spewing vileness into the air. I’m on my knees puking, while Batman struggles not to do the same. I see him close his eyes, focus his chi, and suppress his reaction. He grabs me around the waist, shoots a grapnel at his plane, and hauls me up. Once I’m in the Batwing’s cockpit I manage, “Shouldn’t we neutralize the gas?” He shakes his head and rasps, “No. We need to drop thermite. If the rest of the world were to smell that…” His voice trails for a bit, then he shakes his head again and says, “Gary Busy doing squats. Can you imagine?” As we fly away, he pulls down a lever, letting loose a rain of fire from the Batwing’s explosive bays.