The Big Book of British Flashes

Alright, England, you win -- this time, muahahahaha, etc.

His life would have been a lot simpler if he'd just said no. Trois morceaux then the F minor waltz, ten mazurkas, vingt quatre préludes, promptly two impromptus, then two more. The notes and staves quickly transformed into swarming gnats and a bug-catcher's net, as familiar as impossibly late rent checks and an impeccably clean-shaven face to this entomologist seated before les noirs et les blancs bearing an expression that would make Walter Mitty blush. But who was he to argue with the half-mad Russian constantly appearing in his daydreams as if speaking directly to him from the other side? Wait, he thought, Hrabosky was the Mad Hungarian, though both did share an affinity for unorthodox soup strainers. Taking a short breath, he regained his bearings.

More than once the entomologist tried to stop these préludes presaging sonatas and poèmes, both tragique and satanique, but a cataract of acetylcholine always flowed, harmonic divinity soon leading to chromatic ecstasy and a lucky call to 911 by the old man in the apartment above who, despite his advancing age, managed to pluck out a plea for help amidst the eerily triumphant buzz, barely saving the amateur pianist after his heart had stopped midst the tumescent din.

"You should slow down, my ssssszzzzz."

"You were lucky thissssszzzzzz."

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Despite cold, clinical warnings from the paramedics and a warm, hearty one from the old man that soon flitted away as apis mellifera does when finished arranging its floral visitation, he immediately went back to work, plunging deep within the profundity of Theosophical chords, searching for some Promethean pleroma, a state beyond the humming freshet of passing cars; the clop of soles on weary planks; the din of garbled, pointless transactions, always, always vers la flamme.

Voiced dissonance circled upon itself with haste, eating masses white and black, devouring any tonal or atonal notions, biting off screaming phalanges for the insects trés lent, contemplatif, to pick clean.

The inhuman wailing permeated the apartment complex, diffused shouts of 'murder! murder!' peeling the greasy wallpaper. The old man banged on the locked door, as much as his meager strength would permit.

"They come, hang on little bit more, please!"

When the police arrived after what had felt to be hours, they barged through the deafened crowd to batter down the portal, shocked to find the man softly lingering over a pastoral, welcoming F major. Sternly caterwauling a harsh warning to keep the noise to a small roar or face arrest, they exited, leaving the man at his piano, gently playing, a smile painted below the exaggerated twirls of an elongated moustache that undulated as his head bobbed up and down in joy.