Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar -

This was the ritual.

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.

A woman in a feathered hat fainted. A man in a bowling shirt wept. Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

“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.”

“Eat,” Pat commanded, pulling the bacon from his sax and handing it to a trembling busboy. “Taste the sorrow. Taste the salt.” This was the ritual

Pat lowered his sax. The room held its breath.

Then, the rival arrived.

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,” Gene said, stepping over a puddle of bourbon. “The health inspector sends his regards. And the ASPCA.” It was a lament