He rode into town on a Harley, wearing leather, covered with dust.
He pulled up to the Bulldog Saloon. He was built like a linebacker and looked like Jack Palance.
He brushed himself off, stepped inside and ordered whiskey. The place was crowded and noisy.
“No music around here?” he said to the bartender.
“Band starts in an hour.”
He looked over at the piano.
“Mind if I play?”
“Go right ahead.”
He strode over to the upright, sat down and began to play. The patrons grew quiet. It was the first time they’d heard Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.”
He pulled up to the Bulldog Saloon. He was built like a linebacker and looked like Jack Palance.
He brushed himself off, stepped inside and ordered whiskey. The place was crowded and noisy.
“No music around here?” he said to the bartender.
“Band starts in an hour.”
He looked over at the piano.
“Mind if I play?”
“Go right ahead.”
He strode over to the upright, sat down and began to play. The patrons grew quiet. It was the first time they’d heard Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.”
