The plaintiff, Ariana Grande, is seeking an injunction to prevent Mozart from claiming that he is a better musician than Ms. Grande. Judge, after all the evidence has been presented, we are certain you will find that Mozart’s claims are false, and therefore should be enjoined from any such speech in the future.

Ariana Grande:
            Let’s get this out of the way: The music itself is superficial. A basic requirement. A true
musician is the whole package. Mozart has his rags-to-rags sob story and that Amadeus
film; I have my latex rabbit ears and god-is-a-woman creed. A true musician stands on a
pedestal of gimmicks, so I won’t waste your time by comparing our music.
            Anyways. Let’s talk about ponytails, the one gimmick Mozart and I share; the single
factor that determines who is the better musician.
            My ponytail is iconic, more so than Mozart’s, so clearly I’m the alpha musician. My
ponytail has sparked revolutions. Entire websites and Pinterest boards are dedicated to
speculating the source of my Japanese synthetic fiber extensions. YouTube gurus attempt to
recreate the classic look with dollar store dupes. Ask anyone who has the better ponytail and
they’ll say me. Mozart’s ponytail was a sign of the times. My ponytail fundamentally changed
the times.

Mozart:
            I fully acknowledge that my ponytail as a sign of the times. Sure, I could have splurged
on heat-resistant extensions to enhance my status as an era-defining prodigy. Rather, I chose to relate to the common man, those untouched by musical talent. Judge, do we measure success based on how far one rises above the others, or by how he humbles himself among we the people?
            Furthermore, we have proof that Ms. Grande’s ponytail puts the owner in “constant pain” onstage. See Exhibit A, a closeup of Ms. Grande’s head at the Billboard Music Awards. The heft of the Velcro clips peels her scalp off her skull. Use the magnifying glass to examine her hairline, the microscopic scabs. By siding with Ariana Grande’s ponytail, Judge, you fully endorse that masochism and beauty are in symbiosis. Welcome to the twenty-first century, where we crucify those who parrot “beauty is pain.” Certainly, any ponytail is a better ponytail than Ariana Grande’s.

Ariana Grande:
            Exactly, welcome to the twenty-first century. I’ll remind the Judge that the question’s in present tense, and presently, Mozart has been dead for more than two-hundred years. His keratin has rotted in a grave with only the company of Austrian earthworms. In other words, the composer’s ponytail has decomposed. It’s in no state to even be the runner-up ponytail.
            Anyway, the question’s in present tense, which totally cancels Mozart’s claim as alpha musician. Once again, Mozart, present tense.

Mozart:
            Dear girl, it matters not that I am dearly departed. Music immortalizes its mother. Musicians breathe life into a composer’s lungs, schooled in the art of resurrecting the dead. Each score is a spellbook of necromancy. Find black magic at your local concert hall; hear my Tuesday thoughts in the contour of sound waves.
            Even centuries later, people clamor for more, and not because I am on the front cover of Vogue. Audiences applaud the music of the living to cater to sensitive feelings, or to trend with the trends. Audiences applaud the music of the dead because their hearts demand it.
            My sonatas and requiems have withstood the test of time. Compared to that, your musical legacy is embryonic; thus I deserve bragging rights as the alpha musician.

Ariana Grande:
            Thank you, next. I’ll say it one last time, music has nothing to do with musicianship. It’s a basic requirement—

Mozart:
            Tell the religious “God is our refuge” and see how they react. In my day, it was sacrilege in an unbeliever’s mouth, but angel speak from a choir. Music transcends. If you honestly believe it’s only a minimal requirement, lech mich im arsch, angel.

Ariana Grande:
            Don’t call me angel, you patronizing stump. Besides, God is a woman.

Mozart:
            Heretic! God is the head of the household, a male. God is our refuge. Judge, see how pedestrians kneel for sidewalk copper.

Ariana Grande:
            Again, we’re in the twenty-first century. In the name of political correctness, God is a woman.

Judge:
            Silence! All this talk of God nauseates me.
            In my younger years, I had the pleasure of pampering God’s greater-than-thou air. He
constantly referred to Himself as everything from a pebble to a chicken to solid food, specifically. It’s pointless to argue. As He is so fond of saying, “I am who I am.”
            I have reached a decision in the case of Grande versus Mozart. The injunction is granted, but not on Grande’s behalf.
            Because of your holy talk and gross faith, I grant myself a restraining order against you both. You are hereby banished from everything under my domain, from the firepits to the flogging post to morning icebreaker sessions. Mozart, leave. For your lack of natural wings, you’ll have to take the staircase to your right. Ariana Grande, one day you’ll realize the light is coming. Run towards it. Out of my sight, irksome imps. Case dismissed.

And so, Mozart cranes his neck up towards the serpentine staircase, his tendons already aching. But every tread would be worth it, especially after those hellish two-hundred plus years. He’d heard fables of heaven’s harps and choirs. The music! None of that here. The devil’s taste in music is a looped track of the cries of the damned.
            “Remember our deal,” Ariana Grande breathes as she passes by. Her synthetic fiber extensions swish against his shoulder.
            Ah, yes. He’d promised her exclusive pop-ified arias every Saturday for eternity in return for a small favor: Help him push Satan to His breaking point so that He would banish them to heaven. Already melodies perfect for her four-octave range fermented in his head. His fingers itched for a fountain pen and notebook, anxious to scrawl a tangible record so it wouldn’t knot with the dozens of other threads he’d dreamt up during morning icebreakers, those godawful, tortuous sessions.
            But first, the staircase.