10 Gallon Hats O’ Blood

            A Novel by Tom Miller

            PART 3 - CHAPTER 17

            The New Pianist

            The sign on the tavern door said: NEW PIANO PLAYER WANTED. He was the dirtiest man anybody might ever see. He wore old cut off shorts that hadn’t been changed in a year, a raggedy torn shirt with sweat stains soaked into the armpits, hair that looked like it had been styled with vomit, and sores all over his body. His breath stank of gin because he had drunk so much in his lifetime, he was practically made of the stuff. He wandered into the tavern.

            "Jesus Christ," Said Grizzard the Rip. "Did somebody bring in a pail of Shit?"

            "I’m yer new piano player," said the man. He followed with a pungent burp containing all the smells in the worst parts of the Bible.

            "The hell you are!" Said Grizzard. "Get the hell out of here and take a bath, you dirty hound."

            "I’m the best." The piano man said. "Ain’t nobody better than me in anywheres there is."

            "You’ll have to prove that, mister," said Grizzard. "We got a piano over there. Just got done cleanin’ the blood off’n it. Why don’t you take a seat and show me what yore made of."

            The man staggered, stumbling over several chairs, over to the piano and sat down. He cracked his knuckles, his neck, his arms and toes, and then slowly put his fingers on the keys. All of a sudden, his posture became straight and sure. His face became serene; his fingers, delicate. He began to play.

            The notes were like flowers, blooming in sunlight. The music was like fragrance. It was playful, romantic, childlike, mature, complete, honest. It was the most beautiful music ever heard in the tavern, the West, the world, and perhaps even the best ever heard by God himself. Grizzard the Rip, his eyes wide, his mouth open in stunned amazement, listened passionately until the final soft ring of A flat minor had been played. He was crying.

            "My Lord," said Grizzard, "It’s exceptional. I can’t believe it. That was the most lovely song I ever heard."

            "Thank you," said the piano man. "I try to please."

            "Really. The most beautiful song I ever heard. What do you call it?"

            The piano man grabbed his nuts and said, "That one’s called, ‘I fucked your sheep in the ass until my cock blew up.’"

            "Excuse me?" said Grizzard.

            "I said," said the piano man, only louder this time, "I FUCKED YOUR SHEEP IN THE ASS UNTIL MY COCK BLEW UP. I know it ain’t the greatest title, but it works for me." Grizzard the rip was taken aback. "Here you go," said the man. "Here’s you another one." He put his fingers on the keys and began a more playful tune. The notes danced like fireflies. His delicate touch lent whimsy to the merriment. He was soloing over the bass lines with spontaneous and unbridled joy. Again, it was the best piano playing Grizzard the Rip had ever heard. The song came to a rousing conclusion and when it was over, Grizzard broke out into applause.

            "That’s good, piano man. That’s a winner. What’s the name of that one?"

            The piano man picked a booger from his nostril as he said, "I call it, ‘Suck the Pus Outta My Infected Butthole.’"

            "Wha… what? Huh?"

            "I said, ‘SUCK THE PUS OUTTA MY INFECTED BUTTHOLE.’ I like that name better than the last one."

            "Wha…"

            "Hey, listen to this one. I promise. You’ll like this the best. This here’s a dancin’ tune." Before Grizzard could respond, the piano man worked his magic. He made it sound like a whole band was playing. Grizzard was tapping his toes and snapping his fingers before he knew it. This man was the best there was.

            "What’s that one called?" Shouted Grizzard over the music. The piano man played on.

            "This one’s called, ‘I eat shit and my teeth are brown.’"

            "Eatin’ shit?"

            "I EAT SHIT AND MY TEETH ARE BROWN. Here’s how it ends." The piano man tickled up and down the keys and landed on a grand finale that put hair on yer chest. It was true. There weren’t none better. Ever.

            "I’ll be damned if you ain’t the finest player in the land," said Grizzard. "And I’ll tell you what. As far as my concern, yore as hired as it gets. You got a job."

            "That’s great," said the piano man. "I’ll have a drink. It’ll be a gentlemen’s agreement between you and me."

            "Yes sir," said Grizzard, "but there’s just one thing."

            "What’s that?"

            "I don’t want you tellin’ nobody in here the name of yore songs. You hear me?"

            "Why not?"

            "Just listen. You’re hired. That’s fer sure, so long as you don’t tell no one the name of yore songs. They just ain’t… proper. Customers won’t wanna’ stay if you start talkin’ about pus and shit, and sheep fuckin’ and what not. It’s just common decency."

            "Okay." The piano man said, "Yore the boss."

            They downed their shots and the tavern had a new piano player, maybe even one that would last three or four days.

            The next night, the tavern was packed. The piano player was playin’ hard, fast, and good. Everybody in the place was either dancin’ or drinkin’. The music was so good that nobody was even fuckin’ or shootin’ their guns off. And one after another, the men would drop a coin in the piano man’s tip jar. But one fellow sitting at the end of the bar noticed something strange. As the piano man played, his dick was hanging out of his shorts and he was ejaculating all over his leg. To save the piano man some embarrassment, he went over and introduced himself.

            "Hey, piano man," the gentleman said, "Do you know yore dick is hangin’ out of yer shorts and you’re commin’ all over your leg?"

            The piano man replied, "Know it? Hell, I wrote it."