Dance of Death: Swing

[bonesofbirdwings]

I was still inspired from my vignette here so I continued with more evidence, this time supporting the view that maybe the dance of death was swing.

Because Death pushes open the door of the speakeasy with a polished cane and a neon smile. He breathes in the sulfurous cloud of cigar smoke and deftly slips between the flappers with their short skirts and shorter hair. Their lives are shorter still.

At the bar, he sips a glass of moonshine, tasting the slow deterioration of the liver, the smoky claws twisting themselves into the depths of the brain. He is at the very edges of a furtive negotiation occurring a few seats away. There is the crinkle of cash, the whipcord-thin whisper of future profit, the glint of the burnished metal of a gun.

His horse is outside in the street. It puffs out a noxious smoke as it drinks the thick, black gasoline.

As the night grows darker, the patrons even more inebriated, Death takes the stage. He situates himself in front of the piano, his bone fingers nimble on the ivory keys. There is a pause, a long inhale of burning tobacco, and then he plays. He starts out with a gentle swing, a lulling rhythm. The girls in their dresses and the boys eyeing them hungrily all start to sway to the beat. Then, it rises, faster and faster. His fingers dance across the keys. The floor is a mass of twisting, twirling figures.

“No!” one of the men at the bar shouts, leaping back from his barstool. His leather shoes click on the floor in 4/4 time.

This was a mistake. Perhaps, though, it was inevitable. There is a film of moonshine on the faux-wood surface of the bar. The gun gleams. The girls sashay closer to the predators. They are hungry today. There’s a bang, a scream. A pause - a long inhale as Death breathes in the sharp tang of gun smoke. He smiles at the crowd, his teeth bright as radium.