“Are we ready to start this thing or what?” Joe cried impatiently.
“No.”
Suddenly, the lights went out.
A record scratching sound came out of the darkness.
Mighty Joe stumbled around trying to find a light switch, but before he could, a light so bright he had to shield his eyes came from….
Fish.
The light gleamed in every direction from his too-tight-sequined-Elvis-impersonating-pink-outfit and the shiny red Gibson SG in his hands.
“Deathy,” he said in a terrible Elvis voice, “Track eight.”
The count-in, and Fish laid down the sickest riff known to Ficlykind.