He lifted a ladle. From a nearby butcher-paper package, he produced three thick strips of bacon, each one the size of a human tongue. He dipped them into the cauldron. They sizzled, then crisped, then sang.
“Eat,” Pat commanded, pulling the bacon from his sax and handing it to a trembling busboy. “Taste the sorrow. Taste the salt.”
It was less a dish and more a dare.
“Gene,” Pat said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You want a taste?”
“You think this is about music?” Gene continued, approaching the cauldron. “This is about sanity. You can’t keep bathing the world in bacon. People are dying. Your last fan had a cholesterol count of ‘yes.’” Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar
The door burst open. Standing there, silhouetted against the rain-slicked street, was a man in a pristine white suit. He carried a piccolo and a cold smirk. It was “Clean” Gene Fontaine, leader of the smooth-jazz fusion band, The Al Dente Men .
The neon sign above The Velvet Swine flickered, casting the alley in a sickly pink glow. Inside, the air was thick with three things: cigarette smoke, the wail of a broken soprano sax, and the distinct, artery-clogging perfume of frying pork. He lifted a ladle
Pat nodded slowly. He reached into the cauldron with his bare hand, pulled out a fistful of the crispy, glistening Rar, and held it out. “Then you have to eat the truth.”