The hills are alive with the sound of death machines

Milo comes downstairs carrying his trumpet. “Yay!” I think. “That’s my boy, exploring his natural inclination for music.”

He examines the trumpet carefully for a few seconds, fingering the buttons, then aims it at me. “Set for extreme flame-throwing. Chik! Chik! PSSHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

… Apparently it also has a bazooka setting.