You begin to rock out in your own spazzy way on the dance floor. You've been practicing, and unfortunately, it's paid off. A cloud of spectral ballroom dancers phaze in through the walls to watch you. Soon, they decide that because of your unpassable skill, they must make you one of them.
Way to go Lord of the Dance, you're DEAD.
Go brag about your death at the
GRAVEYARD.
Or START OVER.