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With 14 cymbals already in place, Miriam surveyed the luxuriously carpeted stage and sighed. Turning to the storage racks, she noted the 27 yet to be taken from their shelves, dusted, polished, mounted on stands and placed precisely on the duct-taped 'X' marks on the floor surrounding the percussionist's pulpit.

Her accompanying chant had begun as a low drone, rising dully from closed lips, but with each cymbal placed in situ, ascended slightly. By now it was a nasal whine, her lips occasionally parting to enunciate a few definable syllables. Her Confessor had propounded a few speculative theories as to why these mumbled incantations were part of her pre-show ritual.

She turned with a start as a cloaked figure strode from the side-fills onto the stage. Wearing black snakeskin plimsolls, baggy trousers and a shirt made from Wal-Mart shopping bags, the man (for his stride belied his gender) moved purposefully towards her.

Miriam stood firm and confronted him. "Weee-ooo nanoooo nooo weeb!" sha said.

"What?" asked the cloaked figure. Miriam noticed that although the cloak was entirely black, the fabric was woven in such a way that rough and shining textures caught the light to depict a famous scene from "Third Rock from the Sun".

"Weee-ooo nanoooo nooo weeb!" she repeated, this time more forcefully.

"I'm sorry dear, but that makes no sense" - the frustration in his voice was palpable.

Miriam took a pace closer to him. "Weee-ooo nanoooo nooo weeb! Shank-prubbit speely speely wahump"

The stranger turned his back on her and moved towards the neatly arrayed cymbals.

Without turning to face her, he muttered "You have seven minutes and thirteen seconds. After that time, you will lose the use of your legs, your sense of hearing will be markedly impaired, and you will no longer be able to recognise the faces of any of the Foo Fighters"

Raising one leg, he emitted a high-pitched fart which faintly rippled his cloak, and hopped off the stage, disappearing into the wings.

As a single tear rolled down her face, Miriam took a Sharpie from where it was clipped to the top of her blouse, carefully wrote the word "Kaaaj" on each of the cymbals, then sat cross-legged at the percussionist's pulpit to await her destiny.

Hahaha. Good stuff, Nobs.

Reminds me of that time I gave my grandpa some shrooms and sat him in front of the internet.

Interesting, I'm sure.....

But the cymbalism eludes me.....

An utterly charming story, make more and you could create a book of tales to rival the germanic grimm stories.

Fuck me...

Well not now, that's for sure.

I'm pretty sure Gwyn banished him by posting a poll.