Lucio Ranucci

Something about Lucio Ranucci’s little drum and trumpet band—I don’t know—yes, I was curious what they might play, how they might sound, but more than that I was interested in them as a couple. Surely they were a couple. The look of them. Their noses, their lips, their eyes. I could imagine them kissing. I could imagine them fucking. The way they fit together. Mechanical, yes, but with a relentless passion. Or could it be they were brother and sister? I had to find out. I had to find out everything.

So I joined their little drum and trumpet band, blowing my half-full root beer bottle in the background. My noise made them turn. They faced me. They frowned. They smiled. I dropped the bottle. It shattered. Foamy root beer exploding all over the place. Fragments of glass flying. Part of me wanted to turn and run. But where would I go? Into the tent? Who knows what’s in there? No, I was frozen. I dared not step, fearing the shards of glass underfoot.

The woman said, “Would you like to play with us?”

I nodded solemnly.

They set down their instruments. They approached, glass crunching under their boots. The man picked me up. He carried me into the tent. Black as black can be.

They played me.

Oh God did they play me.