Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar Here

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.”

Tonight was the Rar's anniversary. Ten years since Pat, in a drunken, grief-stricken fugue after his cat ran away, had invented it. The crowd that packed the sticky floor wasn't here for the jazz. They were here for the sacrament.

“I want you to close this place down.”

This was the domain of "Jazz Butcher" Pat Rizzo. To call Pat a musician was like calling a heart attack a slight palpitation. He played saxophone like a man trying to wrestle a greased pig. His other passion, the one that paid the rent on this dive, was meat. Specifically, the Bath of Bacon Rar . Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

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

Pat began to play. It wasn’t a tune. It was a lament. A guttural, squalling thing that sounded like a train derailing into a deli. He called it “Bacon of the Rar.” As he played, he lifted the bacon-laden ladle and, with a theatrical groan, draped the first strip over the bell of his saxophone. The hot fat dripped onto the floor, hissing like a snake.

He lifted a ladle. From a nearby butcher-paper package, he produced three thick strips of bacon, each one the size of a human tongue. He dipped them into the cauldron. They sizzled, then crisped, then sang. Pat nodded slowly

Pat didn’t stop playing. His solo turned vicious, angry.

“Gene,” Pat said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You want a taste?”

Pat lowered his sax. The room held its breath. Ten years since Pat, in a drunken, grief-stricken

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.

“Pat,” Gene said, stepping over a puddle of bourbon. “The health inspector sends his regards. And the ASPCA.”

“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.”

“It’s… it’s terrible,” he whispered. “And I want more.”