Hackish Horns

This evening I was working on a new upbeat funk number on my saXXXXX when there was a knock at the door. “Well don’t just stand like a clam,” I shouted, “Turn the brass and move your ass.”

Well, the fellow that stepped inside wore a striking white suit and held his own horn. He was tall and limber, but his fedora covered most of his curly hair, though I could see his eyes reflecting yellow in the dusk light.

“Who is this third stringer coming into my abode with his own sword,” I blasted three staccato notes in his direction, “Bringing a sax to meet with the saXXXXX man is like bringing a compass and a number two lead for a meeting with Stephen Hawking. You’re already split over there, pea soup.”

“Oh, my, my, my,” the man chuckled while flipping a coin. “I’m not here to challenge you, I’m here to make a deal. All the great musicians have made a deal with me- Robert Johnson, Jim Morrison, Wagner, Kris Kross. Without making an agreement with me, you’ll never truly have the skill to be musician legendairre.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his breast pocket and produced a feathered quill from no where.

I let out a scorching d-scale, heavy on the low end. “Look at you, holding paper like I don’t know who you are- You might as well drop that Sears and Roebuck coupon special from your head because I know that you ain’t got no brains under there but you sure as Mrs. Butterworth have got a set of goat crowns.. Ol’ Nick, Abaddon, Mr-red-skin-sheep-leg!”

The devil himself removed his hat and grinned, “Indeed, you have caught me ‘pon first sight. But still, without my will, your sax will ne’er have a true thrill, so just be a good boy and take this paper and quill…”

“Ha!” I spat out a quick half time rag time ditty. “I don’t need your help! But I will do one thing for you. I challenge you to a duel. You pick the tune. If I lose, you can have anything of mine you want, but if you lose, I get anything of yours that I want.”

The devil stuck a reed in his mouth and smacked down hard, “Indeed, the deal is done Adam’s son, for now ‘tis too late for you to run. The challenge has begun and the tune I pick from under the sun is none other than lesson number one, hot-cross-buns.”

At once we both began to blow. Old pitchfork thought he was clever by picking something so simple, for there is only so much skill to be involved in a three note song, right? Wrong! Where the devil was technically proficient in his rendition, I added something he had lost long ago: Soul. The soul of a man who had seen the worst of Narlins. The soul of a man who had ridden a motorcycle in a circle around the country. The soul of a man who knew what it was like to pay to use a bathroom.

Once the song had concluded, the devil dropped to his knees, fully aware that he had been bested by his own ruse. He had the technical ability, but not the heart to back it up. “The game has begun and concluded, although at first I thought you deluded, it seems my title has been uprooted, you may have any item of mind that to you is most suited. Pick one item for yourself, mountains of wealth, unlimited health, the soul of the devil himself?”

“Bah!” I cut a sharp C followed by to grinding high octive B’s. “I don’t need nothing you got, crook nose. The only thing I want of yours is your absence. Get outta my house. I’ve got notes to play- saXXXXX’s don’t play themselves you know, or maybe by your skill set, you don’t know that. Get out!”

On his way out, Satan allowed himself a small tip of the hat in my direction. Compared to other’s I’ve bested, it was a minor award which I would tack on my fridge next to a little Ceaser coupon and picture of Barbara Eden circa 1961.