We were playing at The Space Room that night, and one of our quartet was out. We were waiting for his replacement, and he was so late we were getting threats from management.

Then it happened.

From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a queerly shaped bass fiddle. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.

Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat tip.

His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. . . .