When he sang it was like ... well, it was like nothing on earth, but I’ll make a stab at describing it. If you can imagine hundreds of raw fingernails being scratched across rough concrete walls, or countless sticks of chalk screeching dryly over shiny blackboards, or numberless, unoiled doors creaking grimly on their desiccated hinges ... all operating at the same time as a thousand hooters and a host of those infernal bells in school corridors which fracture the air as you pass beneath them, then you’re only beginning to grasp what an unholy row Nero’s larynx made when he began to tune up. It was diabolical!
     In the old days he’d been banned from singing anywhere in Wasteland, except deep in the mines on its eastern side which ran under the Mystery Marshes. And it was when he’d gone on one of his singing sprees that he noticed something peculiar happening further down the mineshaft where he practiced.