Late-Nite Jazz

Martin lies prone in his king sized bed, his face essentially smothered by pillows. "Breathing is kind of hard right now," he thinks to himself. He turns over to now lie supine and crosses his arms in an X shape over his chest. "Like an Egyptian mummy," Martin thinks, "I'm just like an Egyptian mummy right now."

A crescendoing thunder sets across the hall outside. The noise grows ever closer, the sound of someone rolling a boulder through a warehouse, near-deafening by the time it reaches his door. It's his father, Colonel, in his wheelchair coming to say goodnight. "Here I come, son!" he shouts playfully as he opens the door, holding out the e in "here" for a long time. Colonel rolls inside, his wheelchair with its magnificent titanium wheels, a silver saxophone hung from his neck. "How ya doin' son? You look like a mummy," he says.
"Doing pretty well, Dad. Yourself?"
"Well, this chair's seen better days, that's for sure."
"Chair looks fine to me."
"You're young, inexperienced. You don't know how it is."

Colonel has wheeled himself fully inside Martin's room now, perpendicular Martin amidst his many punk rock posters. Martin's room is that of a usual teen punk, its walls covered with the aforementioned posters along with graffiti in black spray painted phrases like "Punks rule!", "Death", or "Every president ever sucks", tagged by Martin and his friends, the Cockroach Crew (named for the famous Cosby Show character (non-ironically)).

"Not tonight, Colonel."
"I rather think that's up for me to decide," Colonel says, raising the saxophone to his lips, wetting his reed. "I call this one 'Blues in Blue'," he says and immediately begins to play. A powerful A♭ starts the piece, followed by an E, proceeding onwards in no discernible key. The music is loud and chaotic, death-metal-free-jazz. Colonel's face contorts to one of pure, sick passion as he plays, his eyes closed in concentration.

"Please Dad, stop!" Martin screams, covering his ears. "This is horrible!" His cries go unheard as Colonel's playing only grows louder. He tilts his head back, lifting the saxophone in a Bill Clinton-like parody. "I have a test tomorrow, please just let me sleep!" Martin wails yet unheard. It's 1:13 AM and the music shows no signs of stopping.