Write the Story Installments

A Strange Request at a Piano Bar

WORD BANK: carnival, apple, sprained, juvenile, mask, controversy, oxidation, twirl, awkward, sassafras

The door cracked at the dark and dingy side entrance of the bar while tell-tale signs of the street carnival seeped in; buzzers, music, voices, screams, formed a surround sound system as the door slyly inched open. "Masked Magic" was in the house. He slinked in through the side door as quiet as the shadows of the dimly lit hall would allow. After a brief and rather awkward interview with the manager he had landed the gig as tonight's featured musician. As the darkness sheathed him, the musician tied his black mask tightly around his head. Not a soul in the bar yet as he made his way to his lover for the evening, the piano. A vase sat on top of it's glossy, mirror-like finish filled with a fresh and cheery bouquet. Booths and high top tables momentarily empty would soon be filling up and he began obsessively going over the plan he had created on the way over. Obviously start with the classics... "Piano Man," "Don't Stop Believin'," and "Tiny Dancer," Wow the crowd, give them what they came for and then stun them.

A young and hip lad appeared from behind the bar and introduced himself as he walked over to turn the neon signs on in the windows. OPEN. Almost immediatly the bar began to fill. The musicians fingers began flawlessly presenting recognizable tunes to an audience all waiting for drinks. He was nervous but knew the music by heart so he let his eyes wander, glancing from table to table... juveniles, young adults, singles looking to get lucky...glasses started sweating at each and every table. Out of the peripheral of the masked musician he noticed a slender, athletic built, douchebag munching on a green apple that he had smuggled in. A loner sat facing the piano twirling and fidgeting with his spare change, the sound of it hitting the plasticized table deafening to the man working so hard to play music for everyone to enjoy. Douchebag's apple got bumped off the table and rolled under the featured entertainment's right foot, his pedal foot. The carelessness of the bar's inhabitants was infuriating.

Calamity erupting at the bar. Old friends squealing and hugging before even crossing the threshold. The bells tolling from the crowd outside that continued to celebrate strength with mallets, the eery pop of each balloon being killed by darts, the milk bottles clinking as rings lassoed around their necks, and the scent of warm beer and funnel cakes caused a nauseating whirlwind that seemed to get trapped under his mask. Calamity was erupting at the piano.

Short skirts and low cut shirts, couples tucked back in corner booths creating humidity beyond tolerable measure, men tapping girls shoulders, the sounds of kegs being overworked. Calamity was erupting at the piano! Below his right foot that stupid douchebag's green apple began it's rotten oxidation process, turning brown and mushy and rancid. Controversial debates played over tv's in every corner, subtitles lagging behind the mouths that spoke, no one came to bars to watch this shit. No one! Calamity erupting at the piano!!

It was time to really stun this disgusting crowd.

Fingers briefly pausing to whisper in the waiter's ear. "Sir, I am going to need a cup of warm, not hot, sassafras tea. Please." An odd request he knew, but necessary before the stunt he was about to pull.

Closing chords of "Sweet Caroline" sailed out onto the floor as the tea arrived, body temperature. Perfect. Down in one gulp, like some of these kids doing shots of vodka, the piano man felt it plummet into his stomach, earthy and invigorating! The abhorrent crowd grew restless waiting for him to play the next tune. Little did they know...

He lay his fingers at opposite ends of the ivories in preparation. Squinting out into the crowd, making unsettling eye contact with each and every individual visitor and bar goer he began

The Death Waltz.

Physically impossible for any one human being to play, he played with grace. Under his mask he dripped with salty perspiration, his mouth upturned in absolute frustration, soon he was standing rather than sitting on the bench. Rolling from one octave to another, droplets of sweat hit black and white. Just as soon as it had started, he was finished.

With not as much as a sprained ring finger, Masked Magic walked away. Accomplishing this preposterous composition, trampling over the bodies that he had just lay to rest, lying on the floors, slung over tables, falling slowly off of bar stools... the audiences' last waltz.

He grabbed that stupid brown apple and jabbed it into douchbag's mouth, he crushed shot glasses beneath his feet, tossed beer bottles half full at the silent plasma screens.

And with that, this masked shadow disappeared, back out into the carnival.