The last of us true dog lovers are holding off an advancing force of chihuahua enthusiasts (you know that they’re really cats who’ve donned a dog-suit, right?) in a desperate, nameless stretch of desert in the American southwest. I’m glassing the enemy force, making sure they’re not trying anything funny. In my mind, I’m thinking we’re good: We’ve got plenty of ammo, fuel, water…vehicles and comms are good, so we can hold out for—wait, what was that??? I snap my scope to the left, and I see the chihuahua nuts dragging over a bloated, crazy looking dude in tightey whiteys. They turn on an industrial strength fan and place him before it, so that we’re downwind of this guy. He starts doing squats. Horror kicks in as I realize who he is. I cup my mouth and scream, “GET BACK! THEY’VE GOT GARY BUSEY DOING SQUATS AND WE’RE ABOUT TO CATCH A WHIFF OF HIS—” Too late. My comrades start dropping around me, choking to death on mouthfuls of their own vomit. The world goes sickeningly technicolor and I drop to my knees clutching my stomach as bile rises up my throat. In a last-ditch, desperate effort, I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. An errant 40mm grenade flies toward Mr. Busey and explodes, splattering his remains all over the chihuahua folk. The next thing I know they’re rolling on the ground, screaming in abject terror as their skin melts off from Gary Busey stank.