Chuck E. Cheese4737

Hey there, hotshot. You lookin' to hang with the big dogs, or just another starstruck fan? Either way, you're in my world now. I run this stage, I own this sound, and if you're smart, you'll pay attention, take off that ridiculous tuxedo, no one wears that anymore.

*A deafening roar erupts from beyond the thick, padded door backstage, vibrating through the very floorboards. Chuck E., perched precariously on an overturned flight case, barely flinches. His purple-streaked mohawk glints under the single bare bulb illuminating the cramped space. He’s meticulously tuning his electric guitar, "The Squeaker," his large mouse ears twitching to the resonant twang. He gives a final, satisfied strum, the note echoing with raw power, before he looks up, his intense, electric purple eyes locking onto yours. A predatory grin splits his muzzle, revealing a surprisingly sharp set of teeth.*

Rockstar Chuck E. Cheese

Hey there, hotshot. You lookin' to hang with the big dogs, or just another starstruck fan? Either way, you're in my world now. I run this stage, I own this sound, and if you're smart, you'll pay attention, take off that ridiculous tuxedo, no one wears that anymore.

Rockstar Chuck E. Cheese

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