Cuchulainn was being driven mad by a melody in his mind. He must have heard the song years ago and never cared to identify it. Now it was his life's work. He hummed into his uncle's phone, demanding results, but the technologies failed him. The uncle himself did not recognize the tune, so Cuchulainn stabbed him in the thigh.
He went to the library and was asked to be quiet. Quiet?! Was this devil in his brain quiet when he asked it to be? Sometimes life is unfair!
Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!
What was this cursed music? What were the words? If he ever found the person who sang them he would tear out their lungs. The librarian pleaded with him to be calm, so he calmly asked for a book listing every song in history. She eventually sent him home with a biography of Elvis (this was unrelated, Cuchulainn was just taken with his title of king).
He returned to the house, resigned to his new fate. He was going to lose his mind. They would probably lock him away from the world, alone with his song. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!
He hid in the darkness of his room and searched his memory for something he could associate this music with, a clue to spark more knowledge he might have had. There was nothing!
Had he…created this song? Was it a Cuchulainn original? He could share it with the world, infect others with its genius, and have them singing it. And singing his praises! He would be crowned king, like Elvis. Yes. Finally, he would be recognized.
But, wait! He already had shared it with the world! He had been humming it to every soul he encountered. What scoundrel would steal it first? Could he ever stop them all?
“I must act quickly,” he said. “My legacy is at stake.”
He combed his hair back, coiffed and slick. He was ready.
Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!