Acoustic Reconnaissance

I spotted an old zinc watering can on the flagstones, its narrow angled spout pointing directly at me like an open cannon. An obvious challenge. I scrambled up the seam, balanced along the handle, and rammed my massive cranium straight down into the metal opening. The cold zinc clamped around my rubber neck like a vice. I paused, dangling upside down with my stubby legs kicking thin air. Why did I wedge my swollen skull into dark garden plumbing before breakfast? Zero tactical justification. But retreat is out of the question. I braced both fists against the rim, shoved deeper, and let out a muffled battle roar to inspect the acoustics.