Virgil and I stood nervously at the fresh mound of earth. In his hands glowed one of those damned light-up magic swords he’d impulsively bought at last week’s bazaar in Baltimore. Before us lay the alleged final resting place of Rivethead — once a towering figure of industrial and electro music fandom, now apparently deceased from cultural neglect. With hesitant reverence, Virgil thrust the sword into the earth. Lightning erupted, and Rivethead jerked upright through the dirt, blinking at us through bleary eyes. Rivethead’s awakening was unexpected this soon in the ritual and startled us so badly that we bolted into the night with our magic sword in tow. “I just wanted to wake up Rivethead and bring them to see The Birthday Massacre!” yelled Virgil as we fled for the cemetery gates.