Of Bacon Rar — Jazz Butcher Bath

Gene looked at the mess. He looked at the hungry, feral faces of the crowd. He was a man of processed air and digital reverb. He was not ready for the primordial.

A woman in a feathered hat fainted. A man in a bowling shirt wept. Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

Then, the rival arrived.

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.” Gene looked at the mess

“I want you to close this place down.” He was not ready for the primordial

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 .

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.