Guitar strings are strummed. Keys played. Drums smashed. Bass string trembles. With the final lyrics of the song screamed, Chester strikes his electric guitar and lets the ending note linger. The rest of the band stops too, allowing the distorted sound to fade out. Now all stare from the stage and wait to hear what the only person in the indoor venue says. A black, curly haired man with a golfer's hat pinches his nose of significant size. "Ugh, you're ok." Chester's eyes light up with wonder as he asks, "Does that mean-" "Yes, you got the opening act, barely." As one, the teens cheer and pump their fists to the ceiling.

The venue manager signals Lajon to the edge of the stage and hands him a note. "You play thrree songs," he says with a rolled 'r', "No encores. After that, take your equipment off stage to make rroom for Trripknot." As the band begins packing their gear, Amy politely asks, "Thank you, sir. Will we be getting paid in advance?" Suddenly an arctic wind freezes the band in place, except Amy, who's warm optimism may have ruined their gig. Slowly the manager turns his triangular nose to give her a side glare. "You will get your rreward after I see the crrowd's rreaction to your music. If you play your silly keytar like you just did tomorrow night, well..." He walks away.

Seeing Amy stand silent with her back facing the band, Chester speaks up with forced enthusiasm. "He didn't mean that, Amy. You rock!" The normally upbeat girl rubs her arms and says, "Yes. We'll play a good show tomorrow." "Not with those instruments!" shouts a young man's voice from behind. From the backstage curtains, four teen boys in gothic attire emerge. All of their instruments in comparison to Murder Machine's appear flashier, custom made, and rather expensive. Two guitarists stand average and lanky in sizes; the drummer muscular and tall; the leader fit and wearing a hideous mask. Oddly circular eyes stare at Amy with a wide open grin. His face is entirely covered by baseball skins stitched together. 

The lead vocalist removes his creepy mask, revealing a much better looking, rectangular face with slicked back, dirty blonde hair. "Name's Corey. Joey's on backing guitar. Craig's got the bass groove. And this big guy on the drums is Mick." Mick grins with a growl-like chuckle. Amy freezes for a moment, then smiles and happily extends her hand. "Nice to meet you all. I'm-" "Nobody," Corey interrupts. Vee's right arm turns to steel and clenches into a fist. "Look, we're Tripknot," says the vocalist, "A bigger band than you could ever be, and unlike you, we got style."

From the strap on his back, the gothic guitarist reveals his signature weapon: a wicked looking guitar with horns and a reptilian yellow eye below the strings. Chester thought it blinked and excitedly leaned over to Vee and Lajon to whisper. "That looks like Oz Sabbath's guitar! Rumors say it can open portals to other dimensions, but it was stolen a few months ago!" With introductions made, Corey turns and leads his band off stage. "Don't screw everything up tomorrow, ok babe?" Amy crosses her arms tightly and wears a disheartened frown. Vee hugs her from behind and says, "Ignore those jerks. It's like you said, we're gonna play a great show!" The sad girl silently nods and follows her friends off stage with their gear.

Stepping outside the warehouse-like venue, the teens carry their instruments to the Murder Machine and stack them in the back. Amy gently places her keytar beside Lajon's bass and stands with her knees together. "Sorry, but may I use the restroom before we go?" Lajon nods and closes the trunk, as she walks back inside the venue through the back door. Amy's eyes take a moment to adjust to the poorly lit hallway, unable to make out a female sign on one of the doors.

Muffled voices through a barely cracked open door draw her curiosity. As she places her left ear to the wall, Amy recognizes Tripknot's voices and one she hadn't heard before; a low suave voice. "Since you've signed my management contract, your band's Lemonwire downloads have tripled." Corey, Joey and Mick fist bump each other in the makeup room, while Craig polishes his bass. "How has your playing been?" asks the man in a white tuxedo. Corey smirks and says, "None of us have missed a note thanks to you...except Craig. Why don't you sign it already?" The bass player nervously rubs his neck. "Uh, I don't know, guys. It just seems like a big commitment." "Well, you better start playing better!" Mick says with a growl, "You're slowing the band down!"

The man in white raises both arms to chest level to calm them down. "Fellas," he says, "Let's not get in any heated arguments. Focus on all the great things I've been able to give you. Craig will sign in time." Outside in the hall, Amy ponders the manager's words, then remembers why she came back inside in the first place. Resuming her walk, she spots the restrooms down the hall.

A few minutes later, Amy steps out of the women's room and is startled by a tall man's presence. Once again, her eyes have to adjust to the dim hallway. "Oh! Sorry, sir." "It's nothing to apologize for," the man in white says warmly, "Say, are you a musician?" Amy waits a few seconds before answering. "Um, yes, but I'm...not very good." A grin comes over the manager's sharp face. "Nonsense. You may be new to the industry, but I sense potential in you; a drive to be the very best. I do manage quite a few musicians myself."

"You can help me play better?" asks Amy in the dark hall. "Not only that," the manager says, "but I guarantee your band will triple in views in merely a month." The teen can't help but smile at the thought, then she returns to sorrow. "You're...probably too expensive." Placing his hand over his heart, he replies, "Oh, I assure you. My price is well worth the prize. Tell you what..." From the inside of his white coat he pulls out a pen and paper. "...How about you sign this 24 hour contract and get a taste of what I can offer?" Amy softly grabs the items and asks, "For free?" "You won't owe me a penny."

Unable to refuse the perfect offer, the teen signs her name at the bottom and hands it back to the manager. "Thank you, sir. I'm sorry. I forgot to ask for your name." The stranger steps into the dim light, revealing swept up red hair, sideburns and chin beard. A new feature appeared to Amy that she couldn't see before. In the winking manager's open eye is a dark abyss with a yellow center. The same color then enters Amy's eyes, seemingly entranced. At last the horned man with crimson skin replies, "Saul Matthews. One hell of a manager."