In the corner of a dark deserted cornfield, a shattered Cornell cornet player sits, drinks another Corona and cries his corneas out.
“Why do bad things happen to good people?” he finally sobs into his beer.
“Oy, a tough question,” Nell moved a bit closer and tried to comfort him, “…and sure, the nice folks at the Coronation didn’t deserve to have you blow the last line of Pump and Circumstance. Kinda ruined the show it did, but still, God moves in..”
“Moves in a fucking moving van.” Cornielius shot out, angrily. “Them are some really high notes, Nell.”
“So let’s sue Elgar.” Nellie suggested with mock innocence. “My Dad can write the brief an’…”
“No, it’s gotta be a long letter; like ‘Je Accuse!’ but pronounced ‘Gee, Ay Queue Zee!’ Seriously, if Eddie’d written the damn thing in Ab, the Queen’s butt woulda fallen off?”
“Don’t talk like that about Her Majesty, Corney. She didn’t have to come all the way to Montreal for the Royal Hoo-Haw. That’s why they have that-there big b*cking Ham Palace, you heard of it?”
Nell looked up at the night sky, stars stretching off to the horizon in the east, where the British Empire was waiting, as they spoke, for the Sun also to rise . In the distance a dog barked, F#, but flat. Cornielius grimaced.
“Is it all pre-ordained, Nell?” he asked her, this time wanting a real answer. “I mean, look at the first sentence here, will you(!) Enough ‘corn-‘ there to rebuild the Second Corn Palace. And what’s the deal with “C’-OR-NELL”? What, that’s my life’s work? Either hit the high ‘C’ or have to sit here with you in the dark, all alone, an’ talk it out till daylight’?”
Nell moved yet closer. It was God’s plan, and her answer, all in one.In the distance a cow mooed. Probably an Angus.