So you’re playing a tribute show to George Harrison, and everything’s going pretty smoothly. Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne and George’s son Dhani are all having a good old jam to While My Guitar Gently Weeps. But then halfway through, Prince appears from nowhere and proceeds to take matters into his own hands.

If he was meant to be there, he was surely late from a poetry reading turned threesome. Dressed in a rooster red hat, the world’s most famous Jehova’s Witness took to the foreground and began owning his solo, channeling Hendrix and other voodoo child ways. If Tom Petty hadn’t become so chilled from endless drugs in the 70’s, he might have attempted a swing at the swaggering Symbol.

Finally, Prince throws his guitar into the air and it disappears, clearly demonstrating his mastery of dark magic. Then, like Kaizer Soze, he’s gone.

Did he need to rush off  to an orgy on his private plane to Bermuda, or was he late for a nude model casting, looking for the female version of himself to live in a golden cage in his bedroom?

It scarcely matters, this was the man responsible for warning labels on albums and the crown prince of Minnesota. And his job was done.

Entertaining dinner guests in his lounge.

Entertaining dinner guests in his lounge.