I’m fleeing a horde of Broadway thespians, they’re all trying to sing inane conversational verses at me (yeah, Rent and Moulin Rouge were good, but otherwise I don’t need to hear you sing about brushing your teeth or watching TV). Asinine lyrics pour over me, and one of my eardrums bursts. I stumble like I’ve been shot by a sniper, blood pouring from my ears. My heart beats wildly and I turn to face these theater nerds coming at me with their unrepentantly bad music. Open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A guitar in the shape of a battle-axe that’s festooned with red-eyed skulls appears in the air in front of me, revolving mystically. I grab it and start wailing on it. Metal riffs start blasting out from it and I’m scream-singing, “Call me Master. MASTER!” Tangible waves of Metal wash over the theater nerds, hitting the Brown Note and causing them to soil themselves. They flee in a stinky, howling mess. For some reason they do it on all fours, like Gollum.