They call the trumpet “God’s Instrument.” The instrument that takes a month to learn and a lifetime to master. Forget that. I’m giving you the chance to own “Satan’s Instrument.” The instrument that takes a second to hate and a lifetime to get used to.

If your goal is world domination, getting the ball rolling on the apocalypse, or simply disarming someone who’s a little too “rapey,” this miniature flute of terror will hold the game down. And how.

Brought to you by Lucifer himself, this 4SP Silver Plated Gemienhardt Piccolo will serve his evil minion well. From it’scompact arthritis-inducing body this pipe will unleash a sound that can bring entire crowds of people to their knees in pain and surrender. If you’re thinking of starting a bloody coup, leave the AK-47s and sarin gas at home son, this picc is all you need.

This instrument has the ability to sing an A five lines above the staff so crisp and clear that if you’re not careful may actually cleave your conductor’s brain clean in half. It’s highest note is one only dogs can hear, that composers have dubbed “X.”

Apart from the oboe, this is the only instrument able to kick a field goal of pain right between the goal posts of your unfortunate target’s neurons, resulting in synaptic misfires, blown mental fuses, and a complete breakdown of all left brainactivity, leaving the right brain to writhe in pain and confusion whilst scrambling all bodily motor functions. Any soul unlucky enough to wind up on the business end of Beezulbub’s piccolo will instantly be reduced to the fetal position and revoked of their right to free will.

Aside from violating several Geneva Convention protocols, this wailing weaponry can produce frequencies that wreak havoc upon others by causing:

– sudden unexpected nosebleeds
– aphasia
– heart palpitations
– aneurisms
– loss of sanity
– unexplainable rage
– spontaneous combustion
– abandonment of the will to live
 – anal leakage

Because of this instrument, I now rule over my own sovereign island, where I preach from balconies and lounge in my throne poppin’ bottles while getting fanned with palm fronds waved by ridiculously hot cabana boys.

Tomorrow’s forecast: Whatever the hell I want.

Since I’m livin’ the dream, I’m retiring from my reign of terror and passing on the torch. Being evil is an arduous, exhaustive effort, and this musical scepter cannot be played by your average whitebread vanilla villain.

Only the most cunning, dextrous, morally ambiguous, and questionably sane may apply.

Who among you is worthy?

$300 obo.
Willing to throw in a box of gravel and ship.

– Asia Gregg