Goddamn, you look good, Mr. Davis.
What are those trousers made of?
“Masculinity. And some sort of reptile.”
You always were a snappy dresser.
“That’s what I hated about those fucking hillbilly bands I used to have to play with. Sloppy little white children. If they was my white children, I’d drown ’em in the fucking tub. What’s that ugly motherfucker’s name with the high voice?”
“That’s him. Big gawky motherfucker. Played with him in New York for that Jew who was always yelling and trying to steal from me.”
“That’s him. Neil Young. Yeah. Couldn’t bear to fucking look at him. Got sweat under his armpits, jeans all stained. Motherfucker looked like the bum the other bums use as a cautionary tale. Smelled like an asshole left in the sun. It angered me. I didn’t like it. And his band was worse. I slapped his bass player on principle.”
Of course you did.
“Keith Jarrett showed up for a gig looking like that once. I kicked him real hard in the chest. Man needs to be clean. Look his best. Cut his hair. Take a fucking shower now and then. Shape the fuck up.”
“HE’S RIGHT, MAN. EV’RYBODY’S ALL SLOPPY SUSIES NOWADAYS.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
Oh, shit. This won’t end well.
“WE ALL KNEW AH WOULD BE HERE EVENTUALLY, MAN.”
He just shows up. Sorry, Mr. Davis.
“COME AN’ ADMIRE MAH JEW’RY. AH HAVE BOTH A JEWISH STAR AND A JESUS CROSS. THIS HONORS ALL THE MAJOR FAITHS O’ SHOW BIZNESS.”
Yes. Oh, and he’s most likely gonna–
“MILES DAVIS, AH CHALLENGE YOU T’ KARATE!”
–challenge you to karate.
“Karate my dick, motherfucker.”
“AH GOT GUNS, TOO, BOY!”
“Who the fuck you calling ‘boy?'”
Yeah, this was the only way this could end.