"...single note fuzz lines combined with the plasticine squigglings of the combo organs..."Fred stood next to his speaker box in a vain attempt to determine which sound he was making. Thirty-seven other guitarists scattered throughout the gym were trying to accomplish the same thing. The constant rising and falling of pitches made it impossible for the guitarists to tune, and their attempts resonated together in a heaving ocean of sour boing. Fred knew that the electric guitar was popular, but he never dreamed so many of his schoolmates were players. His hopes for a fast, clean victory in the battle of the bands were dashed to smithereens. There were thirteen guys in the battle who had the exact same model of guitar as Fred, and ten of those thirteen had identical guitar straps. Fred was consoled, however, by there only being six other guys with coiled cords.

Across the gym, a guy with a gray-colored, straight cord yelled, "Hey, turn down, I can’t hear myself!" All thirty-seven guitarists nonchalantly inched their volume knobs higher. The gym echoed mercilessly, squaring and sometimes cubing the reverb effect produced in the amps.

Reclining in his nearby office, Coach Forsenic was gingerly soaping his erect penis, and the twang-plex tones emanating from the gym were distracting his groove. He tried to concentrate on the fleshy sensations, but the metallic mega-mosquitoisms proved to be overwhelming. Angrily, the bubble beating coach wiped his tool with a towel, and put his bar of Lava soap back in his secret lunchpail. Pulling up his shorts, he stomped towards the gym, literally foaming at the mouth.

Twenty-six of the thirty-seven guitarists had by this time switched on their fuzz-boxes in an attempt to improve tuning conditions. Soon, many of the guitars were tuned "close enough for rock’n’roll", and the customary individual warming up with "Gloria", "My Sweet Lord", and "Communication Breakdown" had commenced. All over the gym, volume and fuzz intensity knobs inched higher, each guitarist temporarily edging past the others. A few pickers were loosening up on the classic Chuck Berry lead pattern, but for the most part, fuzz rhythm strumming was prevalent. Nine of the bass players owned real four-stringed basses. Their single note fuzz lines combined with the plasticine squigglings of the combo organs, forming a rich backdrop for the blizzard of strummings.

Fred glanced over to the drummer in his band and was encouraged by the fact that his was the only drummer using aluminum drumsticks painted red metal-flake. This consolation was short-lived, however.

Fred’s band had made the mistake of setting up next to the double dressing room doors. When Coach Forsenic kicked them open, they fluttered like hummingbird wings. They also broke the neck off of Fred’s guitar and knocked him unconscious. The entire mass of musicians crowded around Fred and began commenting on the dark purple hemorrhage quickly spreading underneath the skin near his temple and cheek. Coach Forsenic was beating Fred on the chest with his fist and yelling,

"Breathe, breathe! Breathe now, you sissy!"

As he spoke, soap foam and tobacco juice dripped from his mouth in sagging blobs. Upon seeing the dribblings, the coach reared back his head and spit a foamy, nicotine plug into the air. It soared over the huddled youngsters and splashed onto the circuits of Fred’s amp. Seven vacuum tubes imploded, causing glass shrapnel to blind a row of anxious eyes. Coach Forsenic stepped back in surprise, accidentally touching a microphone stand with his elbow. Puffs of smoke suddenly shot out of the input jacks on Fred’s amp, and a huge blue spark jumped from the coach’s nose to the pickups of Fred’s demolished guitar. There was a tremendous crackling noise and, simultaneously, the coach and the great huddle of musicians began twitching and jerking, and opening their mouths grotesquely.

Fred groggily opened his eyes and beheld his teacher and fellow band alumni, leaping like champion epileptics, and periodically emitting huge blue bolts into the light sockets adorning the ceiling. Fred gawked in astonishment as he passed out, again. The hemorrhage under his facial skin expanded and spread over half his head.

Several of the musicians were wearing fringe jackets, which burst into flame as the voltage climbed. The fire quickly spread to the gym floor, engulfing the coach, the musicians, and their equipment. Overheated fire extinguishers, unable to contain their expanding contents, suddenly exploded causing the gymnasium roof to cave in with a mighty roar.

When the other kids from school arrived to see the battle of the bands, they were surprised to find such a large heap of steel, concrete, and ashes.

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