You play in a twelve trumpet section. Mostly you play low ominous brassy blurts. One night you see somebody in that mysterious v i p seat glaring back at you with udder hatred. A horrid vision. A face of scar tissue, all gray and bumpy and funneled in bright red. Eyes bloodshot and filled in a voltage of menace. You fall over from a heart attack. They rush you to the hospital. You survive but you will not be your old self for a long long time.