A guy descended the slippery staircase of the tavern. He came in a hurry, went straight to the boss and asked him, loud and clear, if he had ever heard of Slaughter. He said he was playing the blues. He said no more and no less.
The boss laughed and tried to explain, in a very confused manner, that something was terribly wrong here, but the gigantic guy wasn’t in the mood for discussion. He just grabbed him by the neck. It snapped three seconds later. Everybody backed up in a sudden silence. They stopped eating. Drinking. Looking. Paying.
An angel flew, crossing the empty space, a feather missing from his crown.
They all saw and heard Buddy Bolden playing.