The man died on my arm. With a stupid grin and darkening bandana around his leg, he wailed out a couple of melodies he had evidently not been practicing. Told me to keep it fun. Maybe a sing-a-long. Let the banjo do the heavy lifting. He handed me a fishscale, to naturally weigh the sharp and flat. He told me to coat them in excess grease. Then

The man died on my arm. With a stupid grin and darkening bandana around his leg, he wailed out a couple of melodies he had evidently not been practicing. Told me to keep it fun. Maybe a sing-a-long. Let the banjo do the heavy lifting. He handed me a fishscale, to naturally weigh the sharp and flat. He told me to coat them in excess grease. Then apply the grease. He went on for a long while. I, after an eye-opening power nap and internal pep talk, finally asked if maybe I should go. Mistakenly believing I was offering to return with help, he interjected, “I AM a doctor!” (emphasis mine). I refused to pay attention for the remainder.