4/4

Ricky Judd, owner of Judd Harmonics, was, as far as his customers could see, in an illogically good mood. Outside of his store, a blizzard was raging, and everyone who was browsing was merely feigning interest to escape the cutting wind and the blinding snow. He wouldn’t make any profits at all for the day, since no one in their right mind would come out in that death storm to buy music products, of all things.

But they were wrong. The hammer of the bell on the door swung back and forth, and a grin flashed onto Ricky that was too large for his face. He knew he had been wrong to doubt.

“What have you got for me, Ricky?”

The blizzard-slaying warrior was Kilik, the town’s most prestigious music enthusiast (or “audiophile”, as he preferred). Music was his single, solitary passion. He devoted every waking moment to it; playing it, producing it, and listening to it. Teaching was what he did for money, though he wanted his tracks to be noticed by a big company. He was a prodigy when it came to instruments – he had become exceptional at so many that it only took him a few weeks to learn new ones.

Two weeks was also the amount of time between Ricky’s shipments, and so every other Saturday morning, Kilik would inevitably drop by the store and buy something new to bolster his collection and playing ability. Ricky always tried to special order the most exotic, arcane, and more importantly, expensive instruments for Kilik to buy. He didn’t always nab one, but today he had.

“Kilik, my good fellow, please come back this way, yes, I just received the most excellent thing from Italy-“

“I’ll have it.”

He always jumped on a yes like that. Ricky’s grin became even more obese. “Well, we can’t have you just pay for it without even taking a look at it, here, here…”

Ricky pulled out a very large case from under the desk, shaped much like a guitar’s, but Kilik knew what it was. Ricky popped it open, revealing a lute with a neck of double length.

“A theorbo?” said Kilik immediately, with a tone of annoyance.

“Yes, yes, a theorbo, and a very well crafted one, at that-“

“I don’t want it.”

These words were foreign to Ricky. Kilik had never refused an instrument from him before. Ricky’s salesman instinct took control and he started to sell. “Well, the $9000 price tag may look a little steep for what you are receiving, my boy, but I assure you, its sound is completely unlike-“

“You’ve sold me one of these,” sighed Kilik. Paralytic silence. “A few months ago.”

He then promptly turned from the cash register, retrieved a crash cymbal, paid, and left the store. Tinkle, tinkle. Clockwork. The usual.

Whenever Ricky couldn’t pull through an instrument in time, Kilik would always buy a new piece for his drum set. Percussion was his favourite of all; he’d spend half of any day on the drums. Other musicians would often find it curious that an instrumental prodigy would find percussion, the only type of instrument lacking in pitch, their favourite. After all, they’re simple. Hit the drum, receive one sound. They don’t have any edge. And besides that, he produced his music electronically – everything he could do on the drums, he could reproduce digitally with a drum machine with no effort. Thump, thump, snap, snap.

Kilik was halfway across the street when it happened. The snow shrouded him until the tires were on the ice. Braking did nothing. The stock truck picked up him and tossed him thirty feet into a neighbouring parking lot, where Kilik’s head collided with a car mirror, shattering both his skull and the mirror. He hit the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Kilik’s new crash cymbal followed suit. It sounded like a drum fill. Bass, snare, ride, bass, crash.

He tried to have his work produced professionally, sending in tracks to all of the biggest record companies. They all said the same thing. “You are extremely talented, and your mastery over each instrument is awe-inspiring – the harmony, the melody, all genius... But it’s a little repetitive. This is so close to being great, you know. Just add some variety. Put in a bridge or two. A break. Different fills. Something.” Couldn’t they understand it? It was art. It was perfection. Variety would destroy it.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a hospital bed. There was an IV in the back of his hand, pumping huge amounts of some mysterious colourless substance into his arm. Kilik figured it was painkiller; painkiller that wasn’t doing a very good job.

Beep. Kilik turned to his right, and noticed a vitals monitor. Beep. On top was his heart, a line bouncing up and down and beeping with each spike. Beep. Kilik was fascinated. He was reminded of an instrument he had, used by monks in their ceremonies. Beep. Monks could slow their heart rates until they appeared dead. Kilik tried it, and found it surprisingly easy to slow it down. A much more suitable tempo for the situation. Beep. He fell asleep and began to dream.

He was seven, and he had just brought a book home that he had gotten from the library. It was fiction, a story that didn’t really happen. Kilik showed it to his parents.

“No, you don’t want to read that, honey, it’s boring,” said his mother.

“Why don’t you go play your drums, instead?” added his father, nodding him on.

But he hadn’t. He went into the basement, turned on a song, pretended to be listening, and started reading.

It was fascinating. Beep. So much imagery. Beep. Music couldn’t express this. Beep. Then they found him. Beep. In the basement. Beep. With the. Beep. Book. Beep.

He beep had beep never beep seen beep his beep parents beep angry beep before, beep but beep now beep they beep were. Beepbeep they beepbeep started beepbeep spanking beepbeep him, beepbeep but beepbeep he beepbeep wasn’t beepbeep reacting beepbeep enough, beepbeep maybe beepbeep he beepbeep didn’t beepbeep understand, beepbeep so beepbeep they beepbeep started beepbeep landing beepbeep blows beepbeep on beepbeep him beepbeep with beepbeep fists. A bass backbeat. Boom. Beepbeepbeep. Boom. Beepbeepbeep. And now he couldn’t ever play again.

Beeeeeeeeeep.

They rushed to his room, but they were too late. He hadn’t seemed to experience any trauma, or have any reason for changing condition, said a nurse in a report. Maybe he just couldn’t stand the pain.