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Trout's Nest

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Dale Nixon
  • Dale Nixon

    methane on my mind

  • Joined: 03 Nov 2011


Posted 28 January 2013 - 11:58 AM

They were a recording type of crew deal and they had a nice studio on the second floor of a building that was once a private insane asylum. Right next to the building that was once a happy lunatic was a diner called Trout’s Nest. It was a small, nice old-fashioned place and the morning ritual went like this: every morning after jamming, f*cking, drinking, talking, smoking, dying just a bit and on and on – know what I mean, man? – the real live studio living stray cats went down to the diner and sat there recovering from their daily exploits. It was a good way to become cleansed and be born once again. They would sit there, eat eggs, drink coffee, talk or not talk, listen, look and then eventually leave after an hour or two and repeat the process of ecstatic hedonistic elation. They would rarely actually record anything worth a damn, which makes sense considering they were all jazz musicians of the questioning kind. They were four guys and as far as they were concerned they had a nice sting going for them. And personally, I agree; it was a good way to live while simultaneously dying like the rest of the dangling ants. All was well and all is well.
They walked into Trout’s Nest around 11 AM and were non-verbally greeted by the rusting female that worked in the diner ever since they could remember. She was middle-aged and feigned pleasantness. She knew better than to ask them how they were doing, for she knew how they were doing; same old tale and all, hung over and agitated and barely breathing. She was afraid one of them might say something rude to her and she would still have to keep smiling. Most of all, she was afraid that someone would mention her miserly embonpoint which was akin to that of a pig that went Oink! When a thought-avoiding drunk was sober he should be left alone. Working at a diner will teach you such harsh philosophies of life. I’d recommend it to all you women in doubt out there. I really would.
All in all, they came in, sat down and ordered the usual eggs over easy and a lot of coffee. There was not a word spoken to the waitress, which was all fine because that’s how it went and everyone understood that and was pacified with it.
After the eggs were finished and the coffee was going on and on and the cigarettes were burning continuously, the trumpet player decided it was his turn to be the first today to open his mouth and let some words come out of it: ‘’So, that Jessica last night was wild, huh?’’ he said trying to smile but not really quite being able to.
‘’Yeah, she sucked all of our dicks and she was good, too,’’ said the guitar player.
‘’I didn’t think she was that good,’’ said the drummer.
‘’What are ya joking, man?’’ replied the bassist. ‘’She gave me the best blowjob I’ve ever had in my life.’’
The drummer mockingly smiled, had a drag from his cigarette and then came his show of fluorescent entertainment: ‘’You probably think that because you were the last one of us to get his dick sucked, which means when she was working on your small pecker she had all our cum already in her mouth and on her face and that’s probably why you enjoyed it so much because in the end it reminded you of the way your mother took care of you when you were a child.’’
All of them excluding the bassist laughed. He never liked Nietzsche or Bukowski. The only person he liked that had German blood inside of him was Kant. It was obvious he didn’t understand the whole transformation through self-deprecation thing – oh well.
‘’Hey, f*ck you, man!’’
‘’Calm down,’’ the guitar player struck a note. ‘’It was good, that’s all.’’
They sat in silence some more until the drummer thought of something – in his mind – valuable and important to say.
‘’We should play In A Silent Way in its entirety today. Granted, we don’t have all the instruments required but we’ll manage with what we have. It would sound good, I just know it.’’
‘’f*ck Miles Davis,’’ the bassist said.
When the trumpet player heard this blasphemy being played out of someone’s disgusting lungs he jumped up across the table, knocking over some plates and cups of coffee, and went for the bassist’s throat. There were only a few people in Trout’s Nest that considered this odd. They were the people that had never been to Trout’s Nest before; virgins, I guess you could call them. All in all, this celebration of perverse flamboyance often occurred and it never lasted over thirty seconds. An empty jazz musician can’t go on doing anything for too long. The lucky (or unlucky, depending on your own point of view, my dear reader) ones that had lost their virginity in Trout’s Nest understood that the best thing to do was just let it end itself without interrupting life’s eternal recurrence of misunderstood normality.
Anyhow, so the trumpet player went for the bassist’s throat and put his hands around it, forcing the bassist and the chair he was sitting on to fall to the floor in wooden anguish.
‘’You stupid motherf*cker!’’ the trumpet player yelled while in the process of not-so-playfully choking the bassist. The guitar player and drummer just sat there with a meaningless look on their face (or faces? I wrote these characters but I honestly don’t know how multi-faceted they are), feeling somewhat annoyed that there wasn’t any more coffee on the table at the current time and moment. Well, you had to make it with whatever you had and whining about it tasted too much like pointless pointlessness so all you could do is accept it and wait calmly without expectations of grandeur. By this time, as you are reading this, the bassist had already kicked the trumpet player in his balls and he fell right next to him. They were both lying down in pain, requesting breath from God and beyond and scornfully praying for the pain and hurt to be over soon.
A man in a green overcoat that was about to exit Trout’s Nest walked past them, looked at them, stood still in front of the door looking at them and then was ready to say something. Here she comes, now: ‘’Jesus Christ, you guys are acting like Christians,’’ he said and then walked out of Trout’s Nest.
The guitar player sardonically smiled as he motioned to the waitress for some more coffee and, of course, damage restoration. The drummer kindly walked over to the two fools on the floor and helped them up, putting them back in their comfortable chairs.
‘’That was intense,’’ the bassist managed to say as he was still trying to collect a satisfactory amount of air.
‘’Who was that guy?’’ the trumpet player, also, somehow managed to say while suffering from a high-pitched ring in both his balls and lungs and also being in the dire process of trying to collect a satisfactory amount of air.
It was all so very, very, very hard trying to write with and about these characters. All waggish melodramatics aside, by this point I have to be brutally honest to both myself and you, my dear faithful-even-in-death reader; there is a pain located somewhere in my gulliver which forces my blazing entrails to extreme lengths and depths of weariness. I feel like killing as it is natural to me that I am a God to all these mechanic mammals and I can do anything I want in the realms of sane insanity and insane sanity. So, what I am going to do is introduce an earthquake in the shaking possession of a magnitude of 25-point-5 on the Richter scale and let all the jazz players in the world improvise to that.
Thank Zarathustra for carrying a corpse.

  • VProductions

    Mack Pimp

  • Joined: 28 Oct 2012


Posted 28 January 2013 - 08:03 PM

I don't get it. confused.gif

Dale Nixon
  • Dale Nixon

    methane on my mind

  • Joined: 03 Nov 2011


Posted 03 February 2013 - 10:36 PM

QUOTE (VProductions @ Monday, Jan 28 2013, 20:03)
I don't get it. confused.gif

I don't understand why you read something with the expectation of 'getting' something out of it. Is Plato your favourite writer?

  • TenEightyOne

    We're bouncing now?

  • Members
  • Joined: 03 Mar 2008


Posted 04 February 2013 - 08:42 AM

This isn't working for me. The story's fairly foul and the similes seem to be at odds with described events.

MNy own opinion (and only that) is that there may be a good story in here waiting to break free... but right now I don't see it.

Dale Nixon
  • Dale Nixon

    methane on my mind

  • Joined: 03 Nov 2011


Posted 04 February 2013 - 01:37 PM

QUOTE (TenEightyOne @ Monday, Feb 4 2013, 08:42)
This isn't working for me. The story's fairly foul and the similes seem to be at odds with described events.

MNy own opinion (and only that) is that there may be a good story in here waiting to break free... but right now I don't see it.

I'm glad.

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