The horror movie gig rolls in and in one part I’m supposed to play “Three Blind Mice.” No problem. Later, I glance at the contract and my lawyer’s masterpiece says I’m composing all original music. So I send him a polite little note: hey, the production expects a classic nursery tune. Maybe sprinkle in some legal fairy dust so I don’t get sued by ghosts of the 18th-century. He calls back sounding like Revenue Canada. Says it’s registered, very serious, very official, it’s too late he says and I now owe five grand. Five. Thousand. Dollars. For what should be public domain. I start calculating who to write and how to tell them there’s a horrible error. I feel biblical-grade shit storm coming.

Pause.

He says, “April Fools.”

The real horror, just my restored blood pressure.