The Jazz Police

It was one of those gray sci-fi nights, a post-civilized world holocaust. I was trapped and floating in a destroyed office building, flailing weightlessly through tangles of wire. Floating free and weightless in a long void. The various floors of the building jagged and blown out. As I look up, I see helicopter search lights sweep and deflect through the charred foggy depth as dark figures rappel down ropes with flashlights swishing through falling dust particles and debris as they search for me. A fugitive, I cling inert and naked to a jagged I-beam concealed, except for my face, behind a mangled bundle of wire (an exploded and tangled mass of multicolored #22 phone wire). A flash of light captures my face and the dark forms swoop down and wrestle me to the floor of a shattered level of the building. Binding me in ropes to an old style swivel office chair, one of the forms slaps me around, forcibly places a metallic cone shaped device, much like a megaphone, into my mouth, Another of the dark forms pulls my right arm from the bindings and forces my arm straight out and demands that I hold my hand limp and let it dangle pointedly downward. In an aggressive tone, a third faceless form shouts, “Well you think you’re so smart! We’ll see how well you do as a record turntable! “. My captors proceed to spin me round and round in the chair shouting, “Play the record!”