Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar Guide

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.”

Pat grinned, revealing a gold-capped incisor. He put the sax back to his lips and launched into a ferocious, greasy solo. The Bath of Bacon Rar would live on. And somewhere, a cat—or perhaps a ghost of one—meowed in approval.

“Alright, you filthy animals,” Pat rasped into the microphone, his sax hanging from his neck like a metallic albatross. “You want the Bath? You gotta pay the toll.” Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

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.

This was the ritual.

A woman in a feathered hat fainted. A man in a bowling shirt wept.

“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.’” Pat nodded slowly

He took the offering. He put it in his mouth.