David marched toward the towering gates, his guitar at the ready. Placed his fingers on the fretboard. Felt the cold tension of the metal strings.
For a flickering moment, he reflected on the sacrifices he’d made to get here. The family he’d left behind. The decades he’d spent searching.
Then he strummed a mighty strum, which shook the very foundations of heaven. Sent tufts of cloud careening from the sky.
And David fell with them.
Descended into Earth’s infernal depths.
Waiting for him there was a mob of decrepit figures, all of them wielding stringed instruments.
“Wrong chord,” one said flatly.