Welcome to open mic.
People yak, they wonder why if Henry is twenty minutes late because he’s screwing the perky intern, they spill coffee over their precious macbook pro. A minute ago, someone exalted the pleasures of cannabis and organic shea butter. Now someone is playing their acoustic guitar, singing about love, true love, great love, deep love, love, love, love. Then someone comes through the backdoor, a glock in hand.
Bang. Next! Bang. Next! Bang. Next! Bang … I will not bother you with the blood and screaming because there’s no blood and screaming. People are still yakking, still wondering if Henry now had been screwing the best friend Amy, and now they spill coffee over the iphone. And the music… love, love, love. The singer is less canorous than before, definitely less vibrato in her voice.
And bang. Next! Bang. Next! Bang.
The gunman stands before the singer now. She lifts her head and raises her hands in the air, says “I’m just the guitarist—” Bang.
The gunman takes the stand, and the guitar. He plumps himself on the stool and begins a movement from the Concierto D’Aranjuez.