He was an ordinary man. He lived on 773 Washington Avenue, in a little house that was halfway paid off. He wasn’t married, and he didn’t have any children (that he knew of). He didn’t even have a dog. He went out to dinner with his girlfriend every so often and did accounting for his “friends”. (Little did he know that they were just being friendly because he figured out their taxes).

And then one day, it all changed.

It was the day he bought a bottle of Crown Royale and a case of Coca-Cola. It was also the day that his girlfriend dumped him. And, incidently, it was also the same day that the kid across the street died. It was all very lonely for him, so he figured, “Well, I’m depressed. Might as well get myself something to numb the pain.” So he did. And he drank and drank until he finally passed out, slumped on the kitchen table.

And when he awoke, he found himself listening to the sounds of singing.