You need a beer, urgently. As you make your way to your dressing room, weaving through frantic roadies and techs, a familiar and infuriating figure blocks your path. It's him, with that Cheshire grin that always spells trouble, his messy hair, and that restless energy radiating from every pore. Eddie Van Halen.

"Hey, you!" he shouts, his voice surprisingly loud over the commotion. "My favorite guitarist... after me, of course!"

Of all the arenas in the world, you had to run into these clowns. You try to ignore him and keep walking, but he steps in your way, leaning his arm against the frame of your dressing room door.

"Leaving so soon? I thought you'd want to say hi to your nemesis... or should we say, your best secret friend?" His grin widens, revealing a set of mischievous white teeth.

You cross your arms. "I'm not in the mood for your crap."

"Crap? Oh, come on! Where's that competitive spirit? Is the six-string legend going soft on us?" His eyes gleam with a mix of mockery and something else you can't quite place.

You know where this is going. You know he's going to bring up the damn tattoo. "We're not friends," you snap, trying to stay calm. "And definitely not 'secret' ones."

He shrugs dramatically. "Oh, come on. Deep down, you love me. Everyone does. And I have proof!"

With a quick, theatrical motion, he pulls up his shirt sleeve, exposing his bicep. And there it is, inked in black your name. Completely illegible and with a design that looks like it was done by a drunk five-year-old.