Fan Fiction ❯ Music to His Ears ❯ Chapter 1
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Nekita 
A little fic about an obscure game called Simon the Sorcerer, starring that all-time classic bard, the sousaphone player! Earplugs not included.
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 09.04.2003 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.9K | Visits: 393 | Status: Completed
A little fic about an obscure game called Simon the Sorcerer, starring that all-time classic bard, the sousaphone player! Earplugs not included.
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 09.04.2003 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.9K | Visits: 393 | Status: Completed
Simon the Sorcerer and all characters associated with it were created and copyrighted by Mike and Simon Woodroffe and are the property of Adventuresoft, all rights reserved.
Music To His Ears
By Nekita
He needed an instrument which would stand out from the crowd; one for which he and he alone would be associated with playing. After all, everybody needed a gimmick, and no more so was this important than in the field of professional musicianship. Every Tom, Dick and Harry was playing lutes and lyres these days, and flutes were out of fashion ever since that one case in Hamlin where that one piper had lured away the kiddies after pulling off that extermination gig. No, he needed something MUCH more distinctive, something that could put him on the map almost immediately.
Fate called to him at a car boot sale in the middle of town. He'd never been entirely sure why they called it a car boot sale; he had no idea was a car was, and the only boots tended to be smelly, hole-ridden things which would fit in better on the hook of a fishing pole than on anybody's feet. Still, such sales tended to be a good source of cheap bargains, and as a starving artist, he had to make do with what he could get. It was here that he searched, and after a good twenty minutes was ready to call it a day, when a glint caught his eye.
The instrument laid in the far back corner of the lot where the car boot sale was taking place, wedged between a rather sorry looking excuse for a drum and another bizarre instrument that looked like an odd combination of a garden hose and an aardvark. It was noticeable first and foremost for its sheer size, which would seem impractical to a less ambitious bard than himself. Also noticeable was its color, a beautiful golden sheen that entranced him with its beauty. The curves, the elegance, the sheer originality of it all...
He HAD to get this instrument.
He called for the man in charge of the sale. "Excuse me, old chap, but I must simply inquire -- what is that fantastic instrument back there?" he inquired.
The man looked up from his magazine towards the direction the bard was pointing. "What, that piece of rubbish? I think the bugger who sold that to me called it a "sousaphone" or something like that. Charged me 50 gold pieces for it too, the bastard -- claimed it was a steal. Bah, theft is probably the only way I'll get rid of the lousy thing, but who'd steal something like that?"
The bard, however, had stopped listening at the mention of the instrument's name. Sousaphone... what a lyrical, beautiful name, like that of a beautiful woman, bathed in the moonlight. It was a match made in heaven, the start of a wonderful, glorious relationship. He knew it must have been destiny that led him to this, and no other instrument.
"I'll pay you 100 gold pieces for it," he stated, quite clearly.
The shopkeeper stared at this odd little man, with his carefully pressed clothing and diligently cared for moustache. "Um, sir, you DID hear me say that --" he began.
The bard's heart leapt into his throat. Had somebody else already claimed this instrument? No, he HAD to get it, simply HAD to. "All right, all right, 150, then," he amended.
"Now sir, I don't think --"
"All right, all right, 200. But that is simply my final offer," the bard declared.
Any attempts to remain honest left for good, as the boot salesman suddenly saw dancing gold pieces in front of his eyes. "All right, sir, you have yourself a deal," he gave in, finally.
Grinning, the bard handed over the agreed-to sum and, hefting the instrument, began to leave. "You shan't regret this! Know that soon, your humble generosity shall be recognized as the moment that instigated my meteoric rise to fame!" he announced boldly, before heading down the road onto the path of immortality.
The salesman watched him leave. "Sad, strange little bloke," he muttered to himself, before turning back to his magazine.
***
He surveyed the area surrounding him, nodding in approval. The town square was the perfect place to begin his stunning career as a professional musician. The four walls surrounding the plaza would greatly amplify the acoustics, and being the center of the small village of Fleur-de-Lis, the surrounding residents would surely approach him to figure out where that mesmerizing music was emanating from.
Grinning, he basked for a minute in the words of praise that existed currently in his own head. Soon, all would understand his belief in the greatness of the sousaphone. He lifted the mouthpiece to his lips, and began to play. The moving tunes of a self-penned sonata wafted from the grand horn of the instrument.
His song was just beginning to be written.
***
Nearby, a bird sitting on the wall, just settling down, was startled to find itself blown off the wall by a wave of cacophonic sound.
***
Pictures played through his head, the product of the notes that drifted from his darling sousaphone like a dream echoing through the waves of night. He imagined himself playing in the halls of kings, the nobles and servants united in the pure ecstasy of music. Perhaps these grand members of society would thus present him with riches beyond his wildest dreams, or bestow upon him great honors. "There goes a most spectacular musician," they'd all say, and recommend him to all their close friends. Then the women would come and -- no, no, mustn't think such vulgar thoughts.
His first song drawing to a close, he decided to go for a lighter mood for his second piece -- a march. He heard the melody play through his head, and like a man possessed he followed along, the snappy beat washing him away.
***
In a farm a few miles away, Farmer Jones was surprised to discover that all of his cows had, simultaneously, stopped producing milk. He found himself puzzled by this.
***
As he was halfway through his second piece, he was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir..."
He had to admit, he was surprised. He was not expecting to win over a fan quite so soon. But it would seem that his playing had, quite quickly, attracted the attention of one of the locals. He sat up straighter and turned around. "Yes, my good man, may I help you?"
The town watchman glared at the musician. "Sir, I've been receiving a large number of complaints recently regarding some sort of noise coming from the square. Seeing as no cats are being tortured around here, I can safely assume it's probably you," he explained.
The bard riled at this comment. How dare this philistine insinuate that his tunes were no better than the caterwauling of base animals? "I do beg your pardon, officer, but I do believe you are not fully appreciating the beauty of this instrument. I am a professional musician; my music is hardly 'tortured cats,'" he huffed.
The watchman lifted an eyebrow. "Well, you can profess yer musicianship elsewhere, sir. Both the heads of the shopkeeper have complained that that ruddy noise is putting off the punters, and let me tell you it's a feat and a half when those two actually agree with each other," he stated.
The bard fumed. He should've guessed that this backwards little sad sack of a town would have no appreciation for music truly ahead of its time. "And where, precisely, would you have me play, then?" he demanded of the watchman.
The officer scratched his head. "Dunno. Try the woods. You know, quiet, serene, inspirational, as bloody far away from the townsfolk as possible. Maybe you'll actually figure out how to play that damn thing out there."
Though rude, the officer did have a point. The works of many a famous bard were composed in the great wilderness, and it was clear that the poor musical tastes of the folks in this hick town would only hold back his genius. "Very well then, officer," the bard agreed, "I shall journey to the woods. Hopefully when I return, the townsfolk will truly be able to appreciate fine music."
"Unlike you, it would seem," the officer muttered under his breath.
"Come again?"
"Um, never mind. Be off with you, then, and don't let me catch you blasting away on that... that THING 'round here again."
"Sousaphone, my dear man, it's called a sousaphone," the bard called back as he left.
The officer frowned as he watched him leave. "Suzy Who?"
***
After some wandering, he'd found the perfect spot -- a clearing near the troll's bridge, with a nice large rock in the open and no trees to impede the sound of his music. It was a perfect spot, more than any, to present the world with his unique vision.
"Humans are such plebian creatures, but nature, surely, must appreciate the subtleties of the universal language. So for you, oh great forest, I present to you my gift!" With a grand flourish, he wrapped the sousaphone around himself.
He began to play...
***
"Who's that trip-tropping over my bridge?"
The small goat whipped out a script from an undefined spot on him and began reading mechanically from it, much as he always had done. "It's only me, the littlest billy goat gru --"
A loud sound from somewhere close by startled the troll off his perch and into the river. The goat and his brother, similarly assaulted, decided that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to join him.
***
Now he was truly getting into it, the notes flowing from him like a stream wandering the vast plains of the human spirit. He was giving it his all, his heart showing the world his feelings through song. The golden sounds of his instrument echoed through the land, no doubt touching all with its grace and beauty. Truly, it was a magical moment.
Which was, naturally, spoilt again.
"Can... up... for a min..."
Someone was trying to get his attention, but he couldn't make it out. "Sorry, old chap, can't hear you." He resumed his tender rhapsody.
The same voice, louder. "CAN YOU SHUT UP?"
The bard gritted his teeth. Whoever it was, he was spoiling his concentration. "I DO beg your pardon," he harrumphed.
"THANK you," the mystery guest said.
The bard, no longer engrossed in his music, studied his guest. It appeared to be a young boy, not even fifteen years of age, dressed in the familiar garments of a wizard. Or at least, his robe and hat appeared to be that of a mage; the rest of his ensemble looked foreign. In particular, the odd shoes he wore sported fanciful designs he had never seen before. Clearly, he was not at all from around here.
"How may I help you?" he asked, remaining civil. No point in lowering himself to the level of his uncouth visitor.
The boy pointed at the horn. "What the hell is that thing?" he asked.
The bard smiled; finally, somebody took notice of his unique choice in instrument. "This," he proclaimed happily, "is a sousaphone. It's a musical instrument."
The boy crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. "You could've fooled me."
Taken aback, the bard demanded, "What do you mean?"
"What I heard didn't sound very musical to me," replied the wizard.
Bah. Yet another uncultured heathen. The bard bristled and dismissed the wizard. "I say, old chap, I BID you good day!" He couldn't be bothered dealing with his kind yet again today, and instead turned back to his music. The wizard, muttering something to an unspecified person about 'not sticking around with that racket going on,' simply left.
By now, however, the minstrel was thoroughly aggravated. This was the second time this day that somebody had the audacity to question his musical credibility. Even now, he could hear his tone going all out of sorts. He decided, however, rather than letting all this anger and frustration get to him, he would merely channel it. A truly angry song was called for, something that would cause the earth to tremble with his rage. Choosing the appropriate piece in his mind, he played out all his ire to the world. With his talents, he hoped others would feel his anger as well.
***
In a small hut nearby, a young man DID feel angry indeed. His mother's priceless tea set had just shattered.
***
The musician took great comfort in only one thing during his song -- that his sousaphone, that most glorious and wonderful instrument, understood only too well the despair he felt at the lack of understanding shown by the rest of the world. He was truly a greatly misunderstood genius; his talent would forever be wasted upon the uncaring, tone-deaf fools they called people. But his instrument would always be there for him, would always provide him solace.
He blew into the horn as hard as he could, preparing for a climactic ending...
...and heard... nothing.
His eyes widened. Desperately, he blew into the horn again, hoping that it had been a fluke, but no! Even this horn, this outlet for all his emotions, his constant friend... had betrayed him. He couldn't believe it. He checked the valves, the keys, everything -- but still, he could not figure out the source of the problem. Finally, dejected, he slumped back on the rock and muttered, "Curses. It's *broken.*"
"S'cuse me, is there a problem?"
The musician looked up. The small heathen wizard had returned, and currently stood before him rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Oh, what do you care, you miserable little philistine? You wouldn't understand the pain I feel right now," replied the musician mournfully. His day couldn't get any worse.
"Aw, come on, now. I can be *very* understanding if you give me a chance," the wizard said. The tone of condescension was not entirely missed by the musician, but he supposed that this strange little boy was better than nothing. At any rate, he looked sort of like a minstrel, so perhaps he'd know a thing or two.
"Fine. My sousaphone seems to have broken," the musician told the boy. "Listen." He blew hard on it, to prove his point.
The boy looked at the instrument carefully. "Well, aren't you in luck! I just happen to run a musical instrument repair shop. Just hand it over, and it should be ready within the hour. How's that?"
The musician's heart leapt. Could this little boy be his salvation? To think he should be so lucky to run into such a fine young man! Surely, his expertise in the ways of musical instruments could... wait a sec...
"You run it by yourself? Aren't you a little young?"
"Bah, you adults don't give us enough credit. We're actually quite talented if you give us a chance."
The musician, satisfied with this response, pulled the sousaphone off of himself and handed it over to the young boy. The boy staggered for a minute under the wait of the instrument, then took off his hat and stuffed the instrument whole inside before placing it back on his head. "Well, I'll just be off, then, shall I?" he said, walking back into the forest.
The musician nodded. "You won't be too long, right?"
"No worries!" the boy called back before disappearing into the woods.
The musician settled back, reveling in his luck, and dreaming dreams of superstardom.
***
Deeper into the woods, Simon looked back to make sure the "musician," if he could be called as such, was within sight. Satisfied that this was no long the case, he removed his hat and took out the large instrument. Awkwardly, he turned it over so that the bell faced the ground and shook it out. After three or four shakes, the small watermelon he'd pitched into the instrument of torture fell out and landed on the ground with a splatter. Thus "fixed," he placed the large instrument back into his hat.
"The hell with Sordid, they ought to reward me just for stopping that bloody nuisance," he muttered to himself.
He patted his hat. "Still, if this thing doesn't wake that giant up, nothing will." Nodding with satisfaction, he continued his journey.
***
At another car boot sale some three weeks later, a disgruntled bard walked onto the sale lot with a hundred gold and a nasty disposition.
"That's the last time I give any of my instruments to anybody. Damn that boy and his 'instrument repair parlor,' anyway," he muttered to himself, caring not about the stares he elicited from the other sale patrons.
He was looking for another instrument, one distinctive enough to make him stand out, and perhaps less fragile than the ruddy sousaphone had turned out to be. Finally, he spotted something, sitting in the back next to a bad pendant of invisibility. It looked for the most part like a large bag, with lots of pipes and the like sticking out of it.
He picked it up and looked at it with awe. "My good man," he hailed the sale clerk. "What might this be?"
The clerk looked in his direction. "That piece of junk? I think they called them 'bagpipes...'"
END
Music To His Ears
By Nekita
He needed an instrument which would stand out from the crowd; one for which he and he alone would be associated with playing. After all, everybody needed a gimmick, and no more so was this important than in the field of professional musicianship. Every Tom, Dick and Harry was playing lutes and lyres these days, and flutes were out of fashion ever since that one case in Hamlin where that one piper had lured away the kiddies after pulling off that extermination gig. No, he needed something MUCH more distinctive, something that could put him on the map almost immediately.
Fate called to him at a car boot sale in the middle of town. He'd never been entirely sure why they called it a car boot sale; he had no idea was a car was, and the only boots tended to be smelly, hole-ridden things which would fit in better on the hook of a fishing pole than on anybody's feet. Still, such sales tended to be a good source of cheap bargains, and as a starving artist, he had to make do with what he could get. It was here that he searched, and after a good twenty minutes was ready to call it a day, when a glint caught his eye.
The instrument laid in the far back corner of the lot where the car boot sale was taking place, wedged between a rather sorry looking excuse for a drum and another bizarre instrument that looked like an odd combination of a garden hose and an aardvark. It was noticeable first and foremost for its sheer size, which would seem impractical to a less ambitious bard than himself. Also noticeable was its color, a beautiful golden sheen that entranced him with its beauty. The curves, the elegance, the sheer originality of it all...
He HAD to get this instrument.
He called for the man in charge of the sale. "Excuse me, old chap, but I must simply inquire -- what is that fantastic instrument back there?" he inquired.
The man looked up from his magazine towards the direction the bard was pointing. "What, that piece of rubbish? I think the bugger who sold that to me called it a "sousaphone" or something like that. Charged me 50 gold pieces for it too, the bastard -- claimed it was a steal. Bah, theft is probably the only way I'll get rid of the lousy thing, but who'd steal something like that?"
The bard, however, had stopped listening at the mention of the instrument's name. Sousaphone... what a lyrical, beautiful name, like that of a beautiful woman, bathed in the moonlight. It was a match made in heaven, the start of a wonderful, glorious relationship. He knew it must have been destiny that led him to this, and no other instrument.
"I'll pay you 100 gold pieces for it," he stated, quite clearly.
The shopkeeper stared at this odd little man, with his carefully pressed clothing and diligently cared for moustache. "Um, sir, you DID hear me say that --" he began.
The bard's heart leapt into his throat. Had somebody else already claimed this instrument? No, he HAD to get it, simply HAD to. "All right, all right, 150, then," he amended.
"Now sir, I don't think --"
"All right, all right, 200. But that is simply my final offer," the bard declared.
Any attempts to remain honest left for good, as the boot salesman suddenly saw dancing gold pieces in front of his eyes. "All right, sir, you have yourself a deal," he gave in, finally.
Grinning, the bard handed over the agreed-to sum and, hefting the instrument, began to leave. "You shan't regret this! Know that soon, your humble generosity shall be recognized as the moment that instigated my meteoric rise to fame!" he announced boldly, before heading down the road onto the path of immortality.
The salesman watched him leave. "Sad, strange little bloke," he muttered to himself, before turning back to his magazine.
***
He surveyed the area surrounding him, nodding in approval. The town square was the perfect place to begin his stunning career as a professional musician. The four walls surrounding the plaza would greatly amplify the acoustics, and being the center of the small village of Fleur-de-Lis, the surrounding residents would surely approach him to figure out where that mesmerizing music was emanating from.
Grinning, he basked for a minute in the words of praise that existed currently in his own head. Soon, all would understand his belief in the greatness of the sousaphone. He lifted the mouthpiece to his lips, and began to play. The moving tunes of a self-penned sonata wafted from the grand horn of the instrument.
His song was just beginning to be written.
***
Nearby, a bird sitting on the wall, just settling down, was startled to find itself blown off the wall by a wave of cacophonic sound.
***
Pictures played through his head, the product of the notes that drifted from his darling sousaphone like a dream echoing through the waves of night. He imagined himself playing in the halls of kings, the nobles and servants united in the pure ecstasy of music. Perhaps these grand members of society would thus present him with riches beyond his wildest dreams, or bestow upon him great honors. "There goes a most spectacular musician," they'd all say, and recommend him to all their close friends. Then the women would come and -- no, no, mustn't think such vulgar thoughts.
His first song drawing to a close, he decided to go for a lighter mood for his second piece -- a march. He heard the melody play through his head, and like a man possessed he followed along, the snappy beat washing him away.
***
In a farm a few miles away, Farmer Jones was surprised to discover that all of his cows had, simultaneously, stopped producing milk. He found himself puzzled by this.
***
As he was halfway through his second piece, he was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir..."
He had to admit, he was surprised. He was not expecting to win over a fan quite so soon. But it would seem that his playing had, quite quickly, attracted the attention of one of the locals. He sat up straighter and turned around. "Yes, my good man, may I help you?"
The town watchman glared at the musician. "Sir, I've been receiving a large number of complaints recently regarding some sort of noise coming from the square. Seeing as no cats are being tortured around here, I can safely assume it's probably you," he explained.
The bard riled at this comment. How dare this philistine insinuate that his tunes were no better than the caterwauling of base animals? "I do beg your pardon, officer, but I do believe you are not fully appreciating the beauty of this instrument. I am a professional musician; my music is hardly 'tortured cats,'" he huffed.
The watchman lifted an eyebrow. "Well, you can profess yer musicianship elsewhere, sir. Both the heads of the shopkeeper have complained that that ruddy noise is putting off the punters, and let me tell you it's a feat and a half when those two actually agree with each other," he stated.
The bard fumed. He should've guessed that this backwards little sad sack of a town would have no appreciation for music truly ahead of its time. "And where, precisely, would you have me play, then?" he demanded of the watchman.
The officer scratched his head. "Dunno. Try the woods. You know, quiet, serene, inspirational, as bloody far away from the townsfolk as possible. Maybe you'll actually figure out how to play that damn thing out there."
Though rude, the officer did have a point. The works of many a famous bard were composed in the great wilderness, and it was clear that the poor musical tastes of the folks in this hick town would only hold back his genius. "Very well then, officer," the bard agreed, "I shall journey to the woods. Hopefully when I return, the townsfolk will truly be able to appreciate fine music."
"Unlike you, it would seem," the officer muttered under his breath.
"Come again?"
"Um, never mind. Be off with you, then, and don't let me catch you blasting away on that... that THING 'round here again."
"Sousaphone, my dear man, it's called a sousaphone," the bard called back as he left.
The officer frowned as he watched him leave. "Suzy Who?"
***
After some wandering, he'd found the perfect spot -- a clearing near the troll's bridge, with a nice large rock in the open and no trees to impede the sound of his music. It was a perfect spot, more than any, to present the world with his unique vision.
"Humans are such plebian creatures, but nature, surely, must appreciate the subtleties of the universal language. So for you, oh great forest, I present to you my gift!" With a grand flourish, he wrapped the sousaphone around himself.
He began to play...
***
"Who's that trip-tropping over my bridge?"
The small goat whipped out a script from an undefined spot on him and began reading mechanically from it, much as he always had done. "It's only me, the littlest billy goat gru --"
A loud sound from somewhere close by startled the troll off his perch and into the river. The goat and his brother, similarly assaulted, decided that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to join him.
***
Now he was truly getting into it, the notes flowing from him like a stream wandering the vast plains of the human spirit. He was giving it his all, his heart showing the world his feelings through song. The golden sounds of his instrument echoed through the land, no doubt touching all with its grace and beauty. Truly, it was a magical moment.
Which was, naturally, spoilt again.
"Can... up... for a min..."
Someone was trying to get his attention, but he couldn't make it out. "Sorry, old chap, can't hear you." He resumed his tender rhapsody.
The same voice, louder. "CAN YOU SHUT UP?"
The bard gritted his teeth. Whoever it was, he was spoiling his concentration. "I DO beg your pardon," he harrumphed.
"THANK you," the mystery guest said.
The bard, no longer engrossed in his music, studied his guest. It appeared to be a young boy, not even fifteen years of age, dressed in the familiar garments of a wizard. Or at least, his robe and hat appeared to be that of a mage; the rest of his ensemble looked foreign. In particular, the odd shoes he wore sported fanciful designs he had never seen before. Clearly, he was not at all from around here.
"How may I help you?" he asked, remaining civil. No point in lowering himself to the level of his uncouth visitor.
The boy pointed at the horn. "What the hell is that thing?" he asked.
The bard smiled; finally, somebody took notice of his unique choice in instrument. "This," he proclaimed happily, "is a sousaphone. It's a musical instrument."
The boy crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. "You could've fooled me."
Taken aback, the bard demanded, "What do you mean?"
"What I heard didn't sound very musical to me," replied the wizard.
Bah. Yet another uncultured heathen. The bard bristled and dismissed the wizard. "I say, old chap, I BID you good day!" He couldn't be bothered dealing with his kind yet again today, and instead turned back to his music. The wizard, muttering something to an unspecified person about 'not sticking around with that racket going on,' simply left.
By now, however, the minstrel was thoroughly aggravated. This was the second time this day that somebody had the audacity to question his musical credibility. Even now, he could hear his tone going all out of sorts. He decided, however, rather than letting all this anger and frustration get to him, he would merely channel it. A truly angry song was called for, something that would cause the earth to tremble with his rage. Choosing the appropriate piece in his mind, he played out all his ire to the world. With his talents, he hoped others would feel his anger as well.
***
In a small hut nearby, a young man DID feel angry indeed. His mother's priceless tea set had just shattered.
***
The musician took great comfort in only one thing during his song -- that his sousaphone, that most glorious and wonderful instrument, understood only too well the despair he felt at the lack of understanding shown by the rest of the world. He was truly a greatly misunderstood genius; his talent would forever be wasted upon the uncaring, tone-deaf fools they called people. But his instrument would always be there for him, would always provide him solace.
He blew into the horn as hard as he could, preparing for a climactic ending...
...and heard... nothing.
His eyes widened. Desperately, he blew into the horn again, hoping that it had been a fluke, but no! Even this horn, this outlet for all his emotions, his constant friend... had betrayed him. He couldn't believe it. He checked the valves, the keys, everything -- but still, he could not figure out the source of the problem. Finally, dejected, he slumped back on the rock and muttered, "Curses. It's *broken.*"
"S'cuse me, is there a problem?"
The musician looked up. The small heathen wizard had returned, and currently stood before him rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Oh, what do you care, you miserable little philistine? You wouldn't understand the pain I feel right now," replied the musician mournfully. His day couldn't get any worse.
"Aw, come on, now. I can be *very* understanding if you give me a chance," the wizard said. The tone of condescension was not entirely missed by the musician, but he supposed that this strange little boy was better than nothing. At any rate, he looked sort of like a minstrel, so perhaps he'd know a thing or two.
"Fine. My sousaphone seems to have broken," the musician told the boy. "Listen." He blew hard on it, to prove his point.
The boy looked at the instrument carefully. "Well, aren't you in luck! I just happen to run a musical instrument repair shop. Just hand it over, and it should be ready within the hour. How's that?"
The musician's heart leapt. Could this little boy be his salvation? To think he should be so lucky to run into such a fine young man! Surely, his expertise in the ways of musical instruments could... wait a sec...
"You run it by yourself? Aren't you a little young?"
"Bah, you adults don't give us enough credit. We're actually quite talented if you give us a chance."
The musician, satisfied with this response, pulled the sousaphone off of himself and handed it over to the young boy. The boy staggered for a minute under the wait of the instrument, then took off his hat and stuffed the instrument whole inside before placing it back on his head. "Well, I'll just be off, then, shall I?" he said, walking back into the forest.
The musician nodded. "You won't be too long, right?"
"No worries!" the boy called back before disappearing into the woods.
The musician settled back, reveling in his luck, and dreaming dreams of superstardom.
***
Deeper into the woods, Simon looked back to make sure the "musician," if he could be called as such, was within sight. Satisfied that this was no long the case, he removed his hat and took out the large instrument. Awkwardly, he turned it over so that the bell faced the ground and shook it out. After three or four shakes, the small watermelon he'd pitched into the instrument of torture fell out and landed on the ground with a splatter. Thus "fixed," he placed the large instrument back into his hat.
"The hell with Sordid, they ought to reward me just for stopping that bloody nuisance," he muttered to himself.
He patted his hat. "Still, if this thing doesn't wake that giant up, nothing will." Nodding with satisfaction, he continued his journey.
***
At another car boot sale some three weeks later, a disgruntled bard walked onto the sale lot with a hundred gold and a nasty disposition.
"That's the last time I give any of my instruments to anybody. Damn that boy and his 'instrument repair parlor,' anyway," he muttered to himself, caring not about the stares he elicited from the other sale patrons.
He was looking for another instrument, one distinctive enough to make him stand out, and perhaps less fragile than the ruddy sousaphone had turned out to be. Finally, he spotted something, sitting in the back next to a bad pendant of invisibility. It looked for the most part like a large bag, with lots of pipes and the like sticking out of it.
He picked it up and looked at it with awe. "My good man," he hailed the sale clerk. "What might this be?"
The clerk looked in his direction. "That piece of junk? I think they called them 'bagpipes...'"
END