“Sure,” you say, “I’ve been trying to talk to someone about that all day.” He grins at your show of bravado and motions towards the trapdoor. “But you’ve got to go down first,” you add.
He shrugs his shoulders, pops the hatch and swings onto the ladder in three muscular movements. You follow him a little less energetically and when you close the hatch you can’t help but gasp at the world’s sudden emptiness.
“Yeah,” he says, “I forgot about the matches.”
Ten minutes later finds you and the dreadlocked man wading through what appears to be the remains of your mother’s vegetable purée. Though it doesn’t seem quite as flammable, which is relief because your guide was speaking precisely when he talked about matches – he’s lighting them one by one, waiting until they singe his finger tips and then throwing them into the surrounding goo. You flinch at every potential firebomb.
You flinch even more when a flickering discard picks out an unearthly silhouette. The dreadlocked man hears you splashing about and looks back at you with a puzzled expression, “Didn’t you come to any live shows…”
Sure you did but you never saw anything like that – maybe that’s because…
“…it’s just Harry the drummer; treat him like any other stickman.”
(a) Grab the latest dropped match and throw it at the beast.
(b) Give it an almighty hug.
(c) Slobber a bit and gargle incoherently.
The Accordion, Fate and your Mother's Meat Hooks 
B!!!!!!!!!
I will hug it and pet it and squeeze it and call it George^H^H^H^H^H^HHarry. *nods decisively and concurs on B*
C
Slobbering will make you fit in with the drummers.
C.
The show must go on. This comments thread is hereby locked, any further comments will be deleted and a coin will be sought. The best of three tosses shall win.
Gentlepeople, arm thy selves.
May the best choice win.