Hallways of spinning records. Scooby slides through a pile of 45s like a furry bowling ball. Shaggy runs in place on a treadmill of tangled cables. The villain slips on a glob of mustard from Shaggy’s dropped sub.
“Old Man Jenkins? The retired sound engineer?”
“So you built a phantom frequency to terrorize the town?”
“Rrr-radio roasts? No thanks.”
(Grinning, pulling out a rope from his back pocket) “Classic. A trapped DJ, a revenge plot, or a soundproof room with no doorknob. We’ll find the trap… and then we’ll set one of our own.”