Recently two hefty women wearing burqas and with heavy Slovenian accents came to my door selling guaranteed ant-traps.  They implied that if I didn't buy a case of 40 ant traps, they would break both my arms.  Thinking fast, I fell to my knees and recited the Prayer of the Afflicted in bad but serviceable Farsi.  Both immediately vanished in a puff of what was obviously lycopodium powder, stage smoke.  I considered calling the police, but I was dressed only in a bath towel, and my neighbor across the street was standing with fists on hips glaring at me because I had parked my car in her driveway again, the night before.  I thought I had a reasonable excuse, so I said the heck with it, sotto voce of course.