He looks bewildered. You stop playing. There’s an awkward silence. All of a sudden the shadowy figure bends over in pain, grabbing his stomach. Apparently the sound of a poorly played harmonica (I’m assuming your better at saxophone than harmonica) is his weakness. He lurches at you, grabs your saxophone and staggers back into the inky shadows.  You are forced to play on “no-name” cheap imports for the rest of your life. Life will never be the same. You decide to play the contra bassoon instead.