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Guy made all speed to the Band Room. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled over the Football Field.
One of the Trumpet players led him to a cramped room, filled to bursting with folder upon folder of pieces. Guy handed him a root beer. "Buy yourself something pretty."
Guy shuffled through sheet after sheet of music, old announcements and notices, and notes that had been stolen from delinquent children. No luck. He took another swig of root beer and made to get up, but something caught his eye amidst a stack of parts for "Black Horse Troop". Guy tugged it gently from the pile and began to read it.
August 24, 2001, of my 2nd year. Here follows the account of Ivan, First Chair of the Trumpets of the Band Room, and the finding of the Lyre of Power.
Guy's heart leapt, and he picked up another page.
It has come to me; the One Lyre. It shall be an heirloom of my section. All those to take my chair shall be bound to its fate, for I would risk no hurt to the Lyre. It is precious to me, though I buy it with a great pain ($20! For a Lyre?!)
The markings upon the stem begin to fade. The writing, which, at first, was as clear as Edward's brain (which is non-existant, I tell you. Stupid Flute.), has all but disappered, a secret now that only root beer can tell.
Guy scrambled for his root beer, then realized he didn't have the Lyre. "Damn it!" Then he realized the bottle was empty. "Damn it!"
"Little French Horn loser!"
A mysterious Snare Drummer beat on Perry's door with his sticks. There was a good deal of grumbling, a click of a lock being unlatched, and the door creaked open. "Oh shit." Perry's dad turned white as new sheet music.
"Do the words 'Saxton' and 'Bacon' mean anything to you?"
"They're not at this end of town! They're up that way!" Perry's dad dashed back in the house and slammed the door.