The Holes and John Smith

by Edward W. Ludwig

"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.

Hummm, I thought.

My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.

"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering. "Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You?"

"I know everything," said John Smith.

I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.

And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.

Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—

My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.

The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.