BLUESY KILLER HORN

He'd blown into town the night before, carrying little besides a hefty rectangular case in one hand. Sharply dressed in a dark suit with a fuchsia dress shirt peeking out, no one paid much notice to him as it was past midnight. Most of the people were asleep and the rest were in their own worlds after a night spent in the local bar.

The following day brought the twin suns back into the sky and the man out into the open, where once again no one took much notice of him and his hefty black case. He set it down and flipped open the clasps in a habitual motion. Seeing it contents safe inside made him smile. Light reflected softly from the remaining brassy lacquer on the oft-played instrument which lay in its cushioned bed. It was his saxophone, his only love left in the world.

His next set of motions was a comforting sort of tradition. As always, he started by finding the neckstrap and sliding it over his head. It found its place at the base of his neck, right where his dark hair ended. He neatly tucked his shirt collar over it while adjusting the clasp to its proper height.

He selected his favorite reed and gently placed it in his mouth to moisten it. The taste covered up the tang of the liquor he'd had earlier and replaced it with the particular taste of the wood. It was more of an acquired taste, but he enjoyed it.

Keeping the thin piece of wood held between his lips, he slid the mouthpiece onto the section of cork that ended the narrow segment of the curved brass neck. The man removed the reed and slid it under the ligature where it was secured. That was the most important part of the sax. Without a reed, the horn couldn't make a sound.

Finally, the man lifted the large body of the sax from the case, the final piece left. He cradled it in his hands. The brass was cool and smooth to the touch. He clipped it on to his neckstrap, the lifeline that connected the musician to his instrument. To complete the sax, he put the neck in its place and tightened the screw.

Fingers slid over the silky pearls as the thumbs nestled under the thumbrest and above the octave key in their respective positions. It felt perfect. Inhaling deeply, he let the thin end of the mouthpiece in between his lips. His tongue brushed the tip of the reed.

A tone was released once his tongue moved away, followed by a tentative scale that quickly grew into a full, rounded sound that climbed up the octaves and descended down again. His fingertips skimmed across the keys as a lick seemed to play itself. The music he and his sax created was a perfect world of his own that he could trap himself in. It was the only world that he felt as he belonged in.

Reluctantly, his mouth backed away from the tip of the mouthpiece and reed. He paused a moment to admire his horn. It was a fine instrument. He'd known it for a long time, and felt as it knew him just was well, if not better. Sylvia, he called this sax. Just like the other Sylvia who'd understood him that well. She was gone now, and so was his purpose in the world—besides his horn and the desire to avenge her.

Straightening up and adjusting his shirt collar, the musician made his way to the stage. The people were waiting.

"Midvalley."

An unexpected voice startled the Gung-Ho Gun. He turned his head and saw a tall, pale-blond man standing in the shadows, his eyes shining with cold bloodthirstiness.

"Knock 'em dead." His teeth glinted in a chilling grin.

"I will," the Hornfreak promised with an empty smile. God, how he hated that man. That Knives. He couldn't even be called a man. But could Midvalley himself even consider himself a man after all he'd done?

That didn't matter anymore. He cleared his head and stepped onto the stage, ready to do his thing. This was one show the crowd would truly die for.

They didn't call him the Bluesy Killer Horn for nothing.