Take It Away (Fiction, Humor)

Nitetime. From the street, we can see a large neon sign atop a brick stand-alone cube in a large field. Thumps, thrashes, and savory rhythms are pouring from the club. Long, wide windows frame the bouncing heads and torsos of dancers and barflies. Pure energy billows from the door into the nite air.

Inside, it’s one happenin’ room. Even the smoke is dancing. To our left, we see the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, bar. Bottles and bottles. Yellow, green, and brown light bobs along this lively row of booty-swingin’ customers. One hefty and handsome bartender is filling happy patrons’ orders with ease, doing his own little work-bop to the music. And to our right is the stage. The band is hot. Five players: Trumpet, piano, upright bass, drums, and singer. The song is pumpin’ and the crowd is all-out jubilatin’.

The singer’s coos then taper into a breakdown. He turns and bows to the trumpet player, and shouts “Take it away, Sammy!” Brief applause is broken, and our somber trumpet player cocks his shoulders and snaps down to his solo. 4, 3, 2 .. Ooooh! Sam can blow. The crowd explodes with joy. The room is near boiling now. Trumpetman Sam wraps it up and barks to the ceiling, “Take it away, Sammy!” The camera shoots over to the drummer, taking a wild solo. Sweat leaping from him. For eight full bars, our fearless drummer, Sammy, tours the whole kit. Bada-da-d-d-d-d-d-d-dat! The crowd is now ripping off their sticky shirts. The drummer volleys his head and fixes his eyes on the piano player. He belts out, “Take it away, Sammy!” The piano man erupts. Pounding and jumping up and down, even using his elbows and feet. People are fainting. He arpeggiates up the scale into a triumphant finale. The police are now here. Piano Sam whips a one-eighty and plops down on the keys. With both arms, he points to his main man, and bellows, “Take it away, Sammy!” Sammy, the bass player, lifts his upright over his head and heaves it across the room. The bass crashes into the wall of liquor bottles. Breaking glass and wood shards collapse onto the bartender, trapping him. The audience is now on stage and fully nude. Sammy wraps his microphone cord 1, 2, 3, 4 times around his neck, and is now standing on the piano tying the other end to a rafter. Sammy, the drummer, hops up from his throne and pulls a pistol from his waistband. He shoots each drum two times: pow-pow snare, pow-pow toms, pow-pow kick. The last two bullets bounce off of the ride cymbal and Arkanoid around the room — ping, pang, ping — striking and killing each individual inside, including poor Lieutenant Sam Samson, who was simply responding to a noise complaint.

Just then, the owner arrives. Shocked, he cautiously paces and examines the countless bodies about the floor and stage. Sam the singer is dangling like an untouched piñata. The bartender surfaces from the rubble, ashes and glass shards fall from his hair. He lights up at the owner’s face, “Oh, hiya Sammy!.”

Sam, the owner, tip-toes to a blood-drenched wall and carefully retrieves his most valuable possession; a stuffed ram’s head he commandeered on safari years before. He tucks the ram’s head under his arm and sets out for the exit. He then slips on a puddle of blood and impales himself to death. Sammy the bartender, stunned, lights a cigarette and the building explodes.

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#fiction #humor #flashfiction #jazz #drums #sax #piano #bar