It’s a standard lament. You’ve probably heard it a hundred times before . . .
One night, about two-thirty or three in the morning, I was standing in a dilapidated railroad yard practicing my trumpet. A beautiful woman stepped out of the shadows and into the circle of light cast by a dim bulb across some rusty railroad tracks. She started playing her own trumpet.
We played together for a while, but then she stopped. She walked over to me and pointed behind me. She said she noticed I had a couple of jugs of vaginal juices. She asked if she could borrow a cup.
So I killed her.
Later, after the police came and the detectives were taking me away, the lead investigator asked me why I’d killed the woman.
I said, “Hell, I don’t mind sharing my vaginal juices with another horn player. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to split them with someone who can make her own.”