I sat alone at the piano in the living room of my apartment in Rome. Observing the clock on the mantle I was a little surprised to find that it was just past one in the morning. The night had been damp and, thanks to an open window, there was a crisp chill in the air that kept me alert in the early morning hours as I worked.
I was busy composing the opening number to my musical version of "The Fly", a piece that would later become know as "Musca Domestica Suite in G Minor", but was at the time simply called "Eat a Big Bag of Shit, You Fly-Faced Fuck." I was feeling a bit on edge due to the fact that two night previous I been a witness to a brutal murder as I walked home through the Piazza del Popolo with my friend and fellow composer, Dario Simonetti. It was very late in the evening and the two of us had had more than few glasses of wine, making our recollections of the terrible incident more than a little hazy, if not completely unreliable and useless to the police inspector who'd taken our statements. He'd observed us both with a wary eye and raised eyebrow as he'd penned our remarks in a small notepad shortly after his arrival at the crime scene.
We related to the inspector that as we were walking through the piazza an hour before his arrival, we'd been startled by a piercing feminine scream in the distance. Running in the direction from where the scream had come from, we'd spotted the figure of what appeared to be a blond woman splattered with blood in a the third story window of an apartment building which overlooked the piazza. Seconds later the woman was attacked from behind by a dark figure wielding a large butcher's cleaver. The most that we could make out about the assailant from such a great distance was that he was wearing a black or brown fedora hat and a what looked like a dark, shiny raincoat and black gloves. We saved the strangest detail of all for last; the odd and disconcerting music that we'd heard playing far off in the distance just before the screaming began. Surely it could have just been coincidental, but something told us this was not some random detail to be ignored.
"Did you recognize this music?" the inspector had asked. With some hesitation, I admitted that it had indeed been familiar. With even more hesitation I next informed the inspector what the music playing in the distance had been. What we had heard was quite simply one of the worst American parody cover songs in the entire sub genre of comedy-themed music. My face nearly turned red as I explained. "Well there is an American country and western song called 'Achy Breaky Heart'. What we heard was meant to be a humorous version of that song that incorporates lyrics about flatulence." The inspector requested that I elaborate and spare him no detail. I winced in embarrassment and with some trepidation continued my description. "Well, you see...the parody version of that song is titled 'Stanky Stanky Fart', Inspector. It was a big hit with humor-challenged rednecks back in the states." The inspector requested that I repeat to him any of the words of the song that I could remember. I rolled my eyes in disgust. "Well, I believe the chorus goes something like, 'Don't smell my fart...my stanky stanky fart...I think I laid a turd right in my pants...Don't smell my fart...my stanky stanky fart...I tried to clench but I didn't stand a chance.' Or something like that...I really don't remember it that clearly"
The inspector pressed me for more details. "With music please." I asked him to clarify. "Please to sing the lyrics with music." The inspector demonstrated by singing a few bars of an Italian song that I did not recognize. I got the point and with great disgust began to sing the lyrics to the tune of the original song. After I had done so, the inspector called to one of his subordinates and whispered in his ear. Seconds later I was stunned when the officer returned holding a cowboy hat and handed it to me. The inspector cleared his throat. "Now please...if you would humor me...with signing and dancing." My jaw nearly hit the pavement. "To catch this killer...I must have every detail possible concerning this music."
"You want me to dance?"
"Please...If you would be so kind."
I donned the cowboy hat and with all the gusto that I could muster, belted out the lyrics again while dancing around like some hayseed idiot. When I finished, I took a bow and tipped my hat. The policemen at the scene applauded, placing coins into the hat.
"Now how about everyone joining in?" I asked. "Dario will accompany us with boisterous fart noises". The inspector considered this for a moment. "Yes, I think this will be fine." he said. Once again I began my song and dance as the others swayed along to the rhythm, joining in by singing along with the idiotic chorus. This time I went for broke and belted out the tune with a tasty country twang and swing in my step. My showmanship was off the hook as I tore my white button down shirt open to reveal a fringed yellow cowboy shirt covered with sequined musical notes and tore off my simple black jeans to reveal a pair of pink chaps and red cowboy boots. Nobody could put this genie back in its bottle.
"Don't smell my fart! My stanky stanky Fart! I think I mighta sharted in ma drawers! Don't smell that fart! That stanky stanky fart! I got stanky odor comin' out ma pores!"
The group square-danced behind me as I continued. "Don't smell my fart! My stanky stanky fart! I made a caca doody in ma pants! Don't smell that fart! That stanky stanky fart! I went and did the doody diaper dance!"
Suddenly a red curtain lowered behind us as a colorful backdrop and a golden guitar was handed to me by a male midget wearing a diaper and over-sized foam rubber cowboy hat. Glitter began to fall from the sky.
"Don't smell my fart! My stanky stanky fart! The smell'll burn the hairs right out yer nose! Don't smell that fart! That stanky stanky fart! It didn't come out smellin' like a rose!"
The crowd that had assembled to watch out little impromptu hoedown went wild with applause and I was happy to learn that an American tourist who had stumbled upon our show had had the foresight to quickly film the entire number in Imax 3D.
It had been a strange evening and as I sat alone at the piano in the chilly morning hours I reflected back, and thought that it might be wise if I tried to start taking a little less PCP on weeknights. It was then that I heard the music through my living room window playing somewhere off in the distance. "Don't smell my fart! My stanky stanky fart!"
The killer had returned.
(Cue theremin music)
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