Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar -
Pat lowered his sax. The room held its breath.
It was less a dish and more a dare.
“Eat,” Pat commanded, pulling the bacon from his sax and handing it to a trembling busboy. “Taste the sorrow. Taste the salt.”
Tonight was the Rar's anniversary. Ten years since Pat, in a drunken, grief-stricken fugue after his cat ran away, had invented it. The crowd that packed the sticky floor wasn't here for the jazz. They were here for the sacrament. Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar
Gene looked at the mess. He looked at the hungry, feral faces of the crowd. He was a man of processed air and digital reverb. He was not ready for the primordial.
“Alright, you filthy animals,” Pat rasped into the microphone, his sax hanging from his neck like a metallic albatross. “You want the Bath? You gotta pay the toll.”
The door burst open. Standing there, silhouetted against the rain-slicked street, was a man in a pristine white suit. He carried a piccolo and a cold smirk. It was “Clean” Gene Fontaine, leader of the smooth-jazz fusion band, The Al Dente Men . Pat lowered his sax
Then, the rival arrived.
“Pat,” Gene said, stepping over a puddle of bourbon. “The health inspector sends his regards. And the ASPCA.”
Pat began to play. It wasn’t a tune. It was a lament. A guttural, squalling thing that sounded like a train derailing into a deli. He called it “Bacon of the Rar.” As he played, he lifted the bacon-laden ladle and, with a theatrical groan, draped the first strip over the bell of his saxophone. The hot fat dripped onto the floor, hissing like a snake. “Eat,” Pat commanded, pulling the bacon from his
“You think this is about music?” Gene continued, approaching the cauldron. “This is about sanity. You can’t keep bathing the world in bacon. People are dying. Your last fan had a cholesterol count of ‘yes.’”
This was the ritual.
“Gene,” Pat said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You want a taste?”
The neon sign above The Velvet Swine flickered, casting the alley in a sickly pink glow. Inside, the air was thick with three things: cigarette smoke, the wail of a broken soprano sax, and the distinct, artery-clogging perfume of frying pork.
Pat didn’t stop playing. His solo turned vicious, angry.
