Clap. Clap. Clap.
The Jazzmaster lifted the Saxophone from his lips. They were wet, tender, like a jazz musician’s lips should be. He looked at the well-dressed man standing in the back of his practice room. He was pretty sure the applause was done ironically. That man really had no sense of style.
“Hey Jazzy,” the applauder said. He made sure his smile was wide enough that the nickname was supposed to irritate him, which it did quite a bit.
“It’s the Jazzmaster. And I don’t really quite appreciate your tone there, Debt Collector.
The Debt Collector smiled even wider. He didn’t care about tone.
“I think you know why I’m here, Jazzy, and with the kind of debts you’ve racked up, I can use whatever tone I want.”
The Jazzmaster grimaced.
“I told them, I just need some time to-”
Suddenly, The Jazzmaster was on the ground. Something resembling blood was pouring from his nose like a faucet. The Dept Collector stood over him, his smile so wide it practically broke the laws of physics.
“We’re tired of your waiting, Jazzy. Obviously you won’t ever be able to pay your debts to us.”
The Jazzmaster coughed. Blood was everywhere now. He could feel something like a hand, crushing him, crushing his insides, down, down, down.
“Please,” he gasped, bile spewing everyone. “Don’t kill me. Give me a chance.”
“There are no chances, Jazzy.”
“Please- rught- I’ll do anything! Anything!”
“Anything?” the pressure loosened a bit.
“Yes, goddammit, I will! Just let me live!”
“Well then,” The Debt Collecter said, checking his watch. His smile wasn’t as wide as it was before. “My employers have a special deal for you. A way to pay off your debt.”
“A special kind of entertainment. Something they’d enjoy enough to let you live long enough to rack up another long, long list of debts you’ll never be able to pay off.”
“They… want me to play my Saxophone?”
“No, Jazzy, don’t be stupid. No one wants to hear your mediocre music.”
“…Tell me, then.”
The Debt Collector turned, and began to leave the room, his footsteps echoing louder than they should have. Just before reaching the door, he said his words, like a shrugging dismissal at a minor accusation.
“They want you to start the Incomprehensible Saxophone”
WEEEEEEEEEEEELCOOOOOOOOME TO THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SAXOPHONE!!!!! WHAT IS THIS, WELL, IT’S A GRAND BATTLE, OF COURSE! (NON-CANON, THOUGH, SO YEAH) IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THOSE ARE, BASICALLY IT’S A FIGHT TO THE DEATH WITH WORDS! EIGHT WRITERS WILL COMPETE FOR THE TOP SPOT, AND EACH ROUND, THE WORST WRITER WILL BE ELIMINATED UNTIL THERE IS ONLY ONE LEFT. IF THIS EXPLANATION IS CONFUSING, GO CHECK OUT ANOTHER BATTLE! THEY PROBABLY EXPLAINED IT BETTER.
NOW, THERE’S A TWIST TO THIS BATTLE, HOWEVER. EACH CONTESTANT HAS TO BE A MUSICIAN, AND INSTEAD OF A NORMAL BATTLE TO THE DEATH, THEY’RE GONNA BE FOYTIN WITH MUZAK OHHH YEAHHH!!!!! IT’LL BE A MUSICAL SHOWDOWN, YO, LIKE SPACE OR NEW YORK AW YEAHHHH
SO ENTER A PROFILE DUDE, I’M PRETTY CHILL HERE, SO JUST INCLUDE THIS INFORMATION:
Name: The guy’s name, yo
Gender: Your dude a chick?
Race: Aliens play pretty kickin’ music.
Colour: don’t use yellow on brown, that’s my property yo
Musical Talent: This would be like weapons/abilities, but more like instruments and stuff about music. Yeah.
Description: Let me know what this dude looks like, man.
Biography: Every man has a past, lay down the deets here.