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Creeping through the gaslit streets of Whitechapel, Hans Vibrophone glanced nervously to left and right, listening for any signs of the Cabaret Police. His banjo glistened in the phosphorous soaked air, blood dripping from the strings.

Sensing no danger, he motioned with his clawed left hand to his associate to follow.

Karl Lestrange emerged from the doorway he had been lurking in and scurried ratlike to Hans' side. His progress was slightly impeded by the 1980's Prophet keyboard suspended from a spiked chain around his neck.

"Do you think they suspect us?" Karl whispered to his cohort.

"How can they?" chuckled the evil Hans, "they believe we were on stage the whole time, performing our little play..."

The Black Ghosts, as Hans and Karl were known professionally, had a satirical cabaret act in which Hans swallowed swords with images of famous people etched upon them, so the sight of Gordon Brown staring desperately from Hans' throat would haunt many Londoners.

The swords were daubed with an inflammable substance, so Karl could then set fire to them and mimic the burning screams of the damned. His rendition of the fiery death of Gordon Ramsay was not, they say, to be missed.

But tonight they had stepped out early, and left mannequins of themselves cunningly positioned for an encore. The crowd took this as part of the noir vibe of the evening, accepting even the Grand Guignol sight of the mannequins melting into pools of German plastic before them.

Their real passion was for a particular form of music, and their quest for a way of describing that music had led to their current situation.

To be blunt, their current agent was lying in a pool of banjo string induced blood with a copy of his latest press release for them sticking out of several orifices.

Now they made their silent way to the offices of a certain blog, perhaps the only place they could find sanctuary..

"There! It is the door!", Karl cried as a neon lined alleyway appeared a little distance away. At once they made haste, pulling the keyboard, banjo, theremin and vinyl pressing machines that were their stock in trade behind them.

Finally they were before the door. "Now use the secret code knock you arranged with them earlier!", Karl exposited to Hans.

Hans nodded and immediately knocked upon the door, to no effect. A sickening thought hit him.. "K-Karl", he stammered, "I cannot remember the knock!"

"You must!" shrieked Karl, and they began to beat upon the door in every combination they could think of.

"This is terrible", Hans said after a while, "before long it will not be twilight anymore, it will just be night. Whoever heard of a nighttime world of devious beats? That would just be.. a disco."

"Perhaps", Karl sighed, studying his bruised knuckles, "we should not have made the beats quite so ****ing devious"....



John

Except singing, as we established on the Simple Plan thread ;)

John

You're right. Damn my modesty!