Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Jamming in front of rich folks. The usual.”
BMI is a publishing company. I never quite understood what publishing was.
“That’s the point. The, uh, concept was invented by mobsters as a legal fiction with which to steal from the artist.”
You’ve thought about this.
“Been in this business 60 years. You mull some stuff over.”
I notice you’re wearing a necktie.
“Felt fancy.”
Okay. Is it a custom poncho?
“Oh, yeah. Can’t get this off the rack. And I went with a lot of upgrades, too. Got a cooling system in here.”
What?
“Like a NASCAR driver’s suit, with the tubes and all that. And, uh, the ol’ girl just knows what temperature to make it. There might be an AI in there.”
Might be?
“She anticipates my moves.”
Don’t gender your poncho, Bobby.
“There are also defense mechanisms.”
“Bobby? Who are you talking–”
thip!
FLUMP
…
“Huh.”
Bobby, did your poncho just render Margo Price unconscious with a blow dart?
“She shouldn’t have approached from the rear.”
Probably not.
Just to fashionably clear, Bob is wearing a ponhoodie.
I wonder if bob had a epiphany about margo’s epiphone casino?