"… c'mon, I just need a little more time. Don't tell me you're gonna flake out on me now, heheh…"

Spamton knows he's been standing over the phone for an hour now, mumbling to a certain no-one-in-particular—and Tenna's probably getting his antennae all tangled, waiting for Spamton to join him for tech rehearsal—but what else can he do, when everything's started getting worse recently? He's busy, damn it. Busy trying to save his whole gig. "What was it you wanted again? Numbers? Data? I'll get it for you, buddy, just give me some time– WOAH!"

And suddenly he hears his dressing room door crack open, and he instinctively slams the receiver down. It's Tenna, probably, and now he'll have to spin another story on why he's late… or, well, it doesn't look like it.

"Who… who the hell're you?"