I’ve traveled the world for five years, scouring ancient temples and millennia-old tombs. Now, in the barren reaches of Northern Africa, under the merciless weight of the Saharan sun, I’ve uncovered an ancient, sacred site. It has gone by many names, but the dying Nephilim that furnished the last clue to its location referred to it as Leotrice, a mythical kingdom that was punished by fire and hail for straying from a righteous existence. Within its main ziggurat, there supposedly exists a grimoire of great power, one that will transport its reader to a heavenly plane that is beyond compare. This city has been buried under the desert for much of human history, and as I trod down its eerily quiet streets, I slowly examine my surroundings using my mag light. After I walk a hundred yards down a dusty road, the stone hatch which I’d entered through slams shuts behind me, and thousands of torches flicker to life. Now I’m staring at a vast landscape of intricately carved buildings constructed from a mix of gemstones and lime, all brilliantly reflecting the wash of firelight. I keep going, my eyes wide with wonder. I see the ziggurat, and lo! Atop its central platform, a leather-bound grimoire circles lazily in the air, suspended by some clever magick which I cannot name. I make my way up to it and I see that I need no torchlight to peruse this tome; a strange, ethereal glow pours from between its pages, providing all the illumination I need to read it, even if I were to be stranded in complete darkness. I follow the instructions given to me by the dying Nephilim, and kneel before it, whispering a magical phrase in ancient Arkadian. The tome stops revolving, and I see its title blink through a series of languages, too fast for my eye to register. Finally, the letters on the front of the book read: “The Enchanted Booty Forest.” At last! According to my research, if I open this book, then I’ll spend the rest of my existence frolicking in whatever dimension is named on the cover. Enchanted Booty Forest? Sign me up, motha ducka! I rise from my knee and approach the book. Suddenly, an ominous creak sounds from the ceiling. A spill of dust falls from above as the walls shift and groan. What devilry is this??? I hear a snarl from behind me and turn: desiccated bodies are emerging from the shadows. All of them are naked, cursed with micro-phalluses, their hairlines receded to well behind their ears…a flash of recognition flares up in my mind: Grammar Nazis! It is said that the guardians of Leotrice will assume the most heinous form known to man as they rise up to protect the grimoire. By Odin’s white-wisped ball-bag, I assure you that they are correct in their assumption! I leap toward the grimoire, but I’m intercepted by a Grammar Nazi that spear-tackles me in mid-air. I’m quickly enveloped by a horde of these gross, pedantic fuckers. My balls shrivel into tiny, blackened pits that would make raisins seem titanic, and my piece turtles into itself, collapsing and folding into what looks like a rolled up sock that—if unrolled—could fit snugly on the foot of a gerbil. “NOOOOOOO!!!” I scream as my muscles wither into pasty ropes. “NOOOOOO!!!!” They’re using evil magicks to steal my manhood! Only one option left. I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A squat rack with a bat-symbol blazes into existence, causing the Grammar Nazis to stagger away from me, shielding their eyes with their forearms. I take advantage of their momentary disorientation to kick them off my body and run to the rack. I get under the bar and immediately start knocking out reps. The bat-symbol glows brighter, my testosterone level jacks through the roof, and my hirsute frame begins re-instantiating along my bones. The Grammar Nazis are hissing and spitting, and as I pop up from my tenth squat, teeth gritted and neck veins bulging out all manly and shit, I drop the bar and lunge for the grimoire. My fingers touch ancient leather and the world warps into a kaleidoscope haze. An instant later, I’m in the cockpit of an X-wing whose nose is painted like a velociraptor head, flying high above the Enchanted Booty Forest, where level 10 Forest Nymphs and 12th level Bladesinger/mages that are also super hot Elven Princesses are blowing me kisses from the ground. (also spot a horde of gorgeous soccer moms in there, can’t forget those!) Made it! As far as those dickless Grammar Nazis go, they can eat my S-foil exhaust!