Fiction

Dead Men Don’t Sing the Blues

 

The saloon door banged open and shut again. But this wasn’t a bar in a western movie. Oh no. This was a smoky, gloomy, deep-south piano blues bar. And true to form, some shady characters ground out a standard blues number on piano and a stand-up bass. The man responsible for the dramatic entrance made his way over to the bar, with a bit of a limp. No swagger – like I said, this ain’t a Western. He did look a bit like a cowboy though; broad hat low over the eyes, bit of a jingle as he walked, that sort of thing. He slumped down next to me at the bar, the dim gas light glinting off of his eyes. Nothing of his face could be seen in the soupy murk. The piano got a little excited and he swung his head to look at the players. Before I knew what had happened, he pulled two throwing knives shaped like crosses from inside his coat and hurled them across the room. The blues players fell to the floor. He turned back to face me and growled into the sudden silence,

“My daddy always tol’ me, dead men don’t sing the blues”.

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