The Bricoleur
By Jason Earls, author of Cocoon of Terror & Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/ http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
one “Did you hear about the new band playing at the Tainted Rainbow last night?” “No. Were they any good?” “Yes. Beyond good. Incredible in fact. I was there and I could barely believe the sounds they were making. But you know, there’s something strange about that band.” “Like what.” “Well, they’re an experimental jazz trio. A jazz-fusion trio actually. And when they play, strange events transpire. They frightened a lot of people at the Tainted Rainbow last night.” “What happens when they play...” “Bizarre things. Dangerous things. Events that border on the surreal and miraculous. Nobody understands what’s going on. People are getting hurt.” “What do you mean people are getting hurt.” “Injured from the music. People in the audience. The music is affecting them in bad ways.” “That’s impossible. How could that happen.” “Like I said, nobody knows. But the music is causing it. You’ve heard about the band’s manager, haven’t you?” “No.” “He might be their sound board operator, but I think he’s their manager too. He stays at the back of the club in a box. A glass box. With a black curtain surrounding it. Some people say he’s running a new type of sound system in there, a sophisticated mixing board of some kind. Others say he’s controlling and directing the band with no equipment at all. They claim he’s using supernatural methods.” “Yeah, right. Are you telling me there’s a guy involved with this band who sits at the back of the clubs they play in a glass box?” “He stands in the box, but yeah.” “Who is he.” “He calls himself the Bricoleur.”
two The trumpet player moved into 32 nd notes in the middle of his solo, a simple five-note repeating pattern, but the phrase was executed effortlessly in fast tremolo fashion. Over the cacophonous rumble of the bass and drums, the trumpet melody
sounded otherworldly and ethereal. He slowly backed toward the rear of the stage, his cheeks ballooning as he blew intensely on his trumpet, till he was standing beside the drummer. The trumpet player looked at the percussionist as he moved into several fast arpeggios followed by a barrage of clashingly minimal staccato notes. Although he was lost in his improvisation and letting his ideas flow, part of his attention still remained on the curtained box at the rear of the club. The place where the Bricoleur was directing the band. The bass player’s eyes were tightly shut as his head bobbed in time with the beat and his fingers worked complicated bass lines. He was outlining the sophisticated chord changes on the fretboard, yet he periodically opened one eye to watch the glass box at the rear of the bar. The drummer pounded on the skins and sweat glistened over his arms as he maintained the moderately fast tempo and occasionally added odd-timed fills, blasting away at the numerous cymbals surrounding him. He didn’t have to concentrate as much on the Bricoleur as the others did since the basic song structures remained the same from gig to gig. The Bricoleur was standing inside his glass box at the rear of the club. But for this gig he had hung another curtain around the box since many people were paying attention to him instead of the band. Word of mouth had spread about the Bricoleur’s suspicious activities and he didn’t appreciate the extra scrutiny. He had a mission to fulfill and didn’t need any distractions. Only a slight distance separated the two curtains in front of the box, forming a tiny crack from which the Bricoleur could see the band members. It made directing them and controlling the music more difficult. If an audience member stared in between the part between the curtains with enough focus, they could see the Bricoleur’s faint hand movements and other incomprehensible gestures. Even though the band was a trio with only one major melodic instrument, the Bricoleur preferred having the extra space in the music so each member could have more freedom of expression; and having only three members was also easier to control. Every inch of the Bricoleur’s box was made of solid glass except for the top four corners, which had small iron caps with knobs holding the box together and kept it sturdy. On two of the knobs were small figures forming the Abraxas symbol: a man’s torso holding a long whip, a rooster’s head on top, two long vipers for legs; all of which – in the opinion of some magicians, anyway – represented the union of Satan and God. The other two knobs had no protrusions, only the number ‘93' etched deep into the top surfaces, which was a powerful occult number. Only the Bricoleur knew the integers were there. The jazz trio went into a slow groove in the middle of their seventh song. The chords still passed swiftly even though the beat had slowed. After a while the trumpet player dropped out and the bassist went into his solo. Occasionally the trumpet player would bend at the waist and play a short rapid phrase, which the drummer, eyes on him for his cue, would match note for note on his toms in perfect synchronization. The bass player soloed on for several minutes and the drummer kept time and added fast syncopated fills along with the trumpet as the chords modulated from key to key. When considered as a whole, the band’s improvisations
were almost perfect when judged by any kind of musical criteria. But out of nowhere the Bricoleur changed directions with the music. A man in the audience looked between the part in the curtains for a brief moment and saw the Bricoleur rise into the air and make a sharp cutting motion across his throat with his index finger. The trumpet player responded to the gesture by hitting the highest note he could and holding it for several seconds. When he released the note to silence, the band stopped playing and the piece ended. A woman in the audience fell to the floor. She lay slumped on her side, blood pooling out in a large circle surrounding her head and shoulders. A man in the audience yelled that her throat had been cut. three “There’s a lot of controversy swirling around the band now.” “I know. I heard a little of it. But I still don’t know what they are called.” “Abrahadabra 93.” “You mean Abracadabra.” “No, the ‘c’ is really supposed to be an ‘h’. Abracadabra is based on a mistranslation of an ancient book. Abrahadabra is the proper spelling and pronunciation, the word’s true mystical form, based on calculations done with the Kabbalah.” “Why 93.” “It’s a powerful number in numerology, popular in occult circles, although I don’t know too much about it, really.” “They say a woman died at their gig last night.” “Yeah. It was the Bricoleur.” “What do you mean, the Bricoleur.” “He killed her.” “No, people are saying a drunk idiot in the crowd slashed her throat and ran out the door.” “Wrong. It was the music that cut her. Controlled by the Bricoleur.” “How do you know.” “I just do.” “Are you involved with the band in some way?” “Of course not. How could you think that?” “You sure know a lot about them. Where do you get your information from.” “I just ask around. The band interests me. I talk to everyone I can about them. I’ve collected a lot of things from friends. I try to find out as much as possible about the weird guy in the glass box standing at the back of the clubs. It’s spooky and it makes me curious.” “What have you found out so far?” “I’ve told you pretty much everything.” “Tell me more about the Bricoleur.” “I don’t think it’s safe to discuss any specific details about him.” “What do you mean.”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about him. It makes me paranoid.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Maybe.” “You would think the clubs would stop booking the band after so many people have gotten injured at their shows.” “Well, they bring in a lot of customers also. Customers who drink. The crowds are getting bigger and bigger.” “There’s been a lot of excitement around here lately. How much longer do you think it will last.” “Not long.”
four The Bricoleur’s real name was Harrison Wakefield. He was born into a prominent London family in 1962 and studied psychology and mathematics at Cambridge where he received his Bachelor of Science degree in under three years. After that he basically vanished for the next decade and it’s thought he joined many secret societies during this time. But after being expelled from most of them for battling with their leaders, (which caused over half of them to eventually perish or vanish from the earth), he formed six secret societies of his own in rapid succession. Although most of their names are unknown to this day, one is thought to have been Ex Nihilo Nihil, a sex cult driven out of Europe for its depraved acts, while another group is thought to have been the equally infamous Order of Abraxas, one of the most feared and respected secret societies in all of Europe, many of its members having been former criminals. The Order of Abraxas is now thought to be defunct, but many suspect it still exists in a different form with the current handful of members residing in various parts of the world sworn to total secrecy. They meet physically once a year, but communicate in other ways the rest of the time. Wakefield is considered one of the most powerful practitioners of magick in the world and one of the advanced masters in the use of the Kabbalah; he has studied Jewish mysticism and the occult for over thirty years. One example of his prowess is that at a certain point in his life, Wakefield developed a problem with alcohol and prescription drugs, but a former colleague from a secret society said he cured his addictions with a ritual of his own invention, which he constructed from information listed on the final two pages of the Kabbalah. Other rumors have swirled around him. People have claimed he was once a government spy, an expert counterfeiter, a skilled amateur boxer, a former professional guitarist, and a college-level mathematics instructor. Others say he used to wield a glass wand in his magical practices but abandoned it in favor of a powerful amulet he found in an Egyptian tomb, which he now wears under his clothing. Others say he hates his original name and demands to be called ‘the Bricoleur,’ and that his favorite occult phrase is ‘Abrahadabra 93 – the Bricoleur will create as he speaks.’ One interviewee said for several years Wakefield was obsessed with the problem of making himself “more-than-human,” that he wanted
to become a being capable of transcending the natural confines of humanity and that he had performed many experiments to bring about this result, but eventually had to abandon them because the methods were getting so extreme they were causing irreparable damage to his body and mind. Also Wakefield wrote a book, his masterpiece, Dismiss the Savior Crassly, has been banned in almost all countries around the world. It’s a 250,000-word tome filled with deep scholarly research and depraved rituals along with Wakefield’s disturbing rants and opinions intermixed. Not much more is known about the book, as it’s extremely rare and ridiculously expensive – we’re currently trying to acquire a copy. Most of the other details concerning Wakefield remain unconfirmed and many questions still remain: Why did he turn to music? That is the main question we ask everyone we interview about him. Two people have given evidence that he experimented with different methods of commiting crimes through various artistic mediums in the past, mostly unsuccessful. Music was the last form of artistic expression on his list, which is why he formed the experimental jazz trio. Why do his band members cooperate with him when they were moderately successful musicians before joining Abrahadabra 93? Friends and family of the band say he has them in a trance they can’t break out of – they’re under a powerful enchanter’s spell. What is Wakefield’s ultimate goal, what is he trying to accomplish with his experimental music? Some say it is his interest in the Dark Ages and that his overriding goal is to spread another plague over the earth, but this one much stronger than the previous ones. He wants disease and death to run rampant over the planet and decimate all life. But that is only speculation. The police know he has some tangible goal in mind with his experimental trio and they suspect he will soon attempt to wield a major instrument of death against a large group of people or even an entire city to inflict widespread havoc, but no one is sure what it will be. Nevertheless, the police have guaranteed us if any more deaths or injuries occur at the band’s performances (which are steadily drawing more and more curious listeners), the Bricoleur will immediately be arrested.
five “Are you going to see Abrahadabra 93 tonight?” “I am.” “For the first time?” “Yes.” “This will be the worst and possibly best gig you could attend.” “Why do you say that?” “Serious things are going to take place tonight. Everyone’s talking about the upcoming gig all over town. Even the police are going to be in attendance, working undercover probably.” No response.
“Aren’t you worried about attending?” “No. I’m going to stay near the back of the club. Close to the Bricoleur. Keep my eyes on him the entire time.” “He hates that. He wants people to pay attention to the music. Not him.” “Too bad. I don’t care much for jazz.” “It’s actually jazz fusion. Similar to the old Mahavishnu Orchestra.” “Don’t care for that either.” “The Bricoleur himself is going to make an appearance.” “What do you mean?” “He’s going to get up on stage after the band plays and make an announcement.” “You’re joking.” “No, he really is.” “How do you know this?” “I found a flier on the street today. It said that after the trio finishes playing two sets, the Bricoleur is going to address the audience. He’s going to give some kind of speech.” “Jesus. What do you think he will say?” “Nobody knows.” “What do you think will happen?” “Something deadly.” “It must be something really spectacular, otherwise the Bricoleur wouldn’t have advertised it.” “True.” “Tonight is the night. Abrahadabra 93.” “Yeah, grievous events are going to take place.” “And I’ll be there to see them.”
six-six-six Abrahadabra 93’s music was filled with more dynamics than most other bands, for the purpose of taking up the extra space that came with having only three instruments. The trumpet player had a wide range, extremely low notes and piercing high tones were part of his arsenal, while the drummer was a fearsome hybrid of Elvin Jones and Billy Cobham, two of the best jazz drummers in the world; and the bass player was one of the greatest soloists in the United States with his unique staccato plucking style, even though he was greatly underrated. A large portion of the band’s music consisted of executing long complicated melodic lines all in perfect unison, the trumpet player and bassist playing the same fast melodies but two octaves apart while the drummer matched the notes perfectly on his toms, snare, bass drum and cymbals, using many odd time signatures. In this last performance, the final night of the six gigs the Bricoleur had planned, the night when he would address the audience, Abrahadabra 93’s playing seemed totally unhinged, bordering on pure chaos. Yet it was still tightly controlled by the Bricoleur in the glass box at the rear of the club.
He was at the back directing the band as usual. The people in the crowd seemed almost hypnotized by the inexplicable sounds coming from the three musicians on stage. Usually the music differed slightly from performance to performance, but tonight it was so different it was as if they had written entirely new songs for their final gig. The Bricoleur was hiding deep within his glass box surrounded by two curtains, he was taking many chances with the musical directions. He made a few mistakes occasionally, giving confusing signals, and the band was struggling to keep up with him, but it only made the music sound more unhinged, passionate, and unpredictable. The drummer flailed on his drums and the bass player plucked staccato phrases while the trumpet player bent at the waist blowing rapid notes from a diminished minor scale. A tremendous amount of tension was in the air, as if the band were trying to transcend the normal bounds of space-time with their music. The intense physical exertion and mental strain they were putting on themselves to perform some of the most complicated and uncanny music ever created was putting the audience on edge. Many couldn’t take the palpable tension and walked out. The last song of the set began with many start-stop dynamics; it was dense and angular and impossible to dance to. The drummer pounded his snare with all his strength and beat the ride cymbal in a furious tempo, while the bass player plucked his strings and watched both the Bricoleur and the drummer out of the corner of his eye. The trumpet player blasted fast pentatonic melodies over the rhythm with one eye closed and the other on the glass box at the back of the club. They each took solos and changed the dynamics of the song beneath their improvisations, and when the piece finally ended, miraculously, no one in the club had been injured. The three musicians stopped playing and looked at each other with obvious confusion, as if they didn’t know what to do next. The trumpet player turned around and put his instrument in its case, while the bass player went over and set his double bass against the wall. The drummer put his sticks down on his snare and walked out from behind his kit. They lined up in a row at the front of the stage, standing there staring at the audience in perfect silence. A few audience members turned around to look at the Bricoleur, they knew it was time for him to give the speech he had announced on the flyer. The Bricoleur pulled the curtain around his glass box tighter, and although no one could see him, he made a brief slashing motion across his throat three times with each member of the jazz trio on stage replicating his movements exactly. After the three cuts the three musicians fell to the stage and everyone in the audience gasped. No blood was visible. The musicians seemed to have only passed out. They lay on their backs perfectly still, slumped over in separate heaps on the stage. The club grew silent again, almost too silent. A few people backed away from the unconscious band members without making a sound. The club had never been so quiet. The glass case at the rear of the club creaked open. It had a split down the center and the Bricoleur simply pushed on each half to open the box. He stepped out and made his way toward the stage, his head held low. The crowd finally got a good
look at him for the first time. He was wearing a white robe that came to his knees. The robe was covered with small red symbols and two large elaborate designs flowed over each shoulder. His head was cleanly shaven and shined brightly from the lights of the club. Rings glistened on nearly every finger of both hands, even his thumbs. He was carrying something on a small leather string, clutching the main part of it in his palm. The skin of his face and hands was pale and deep wrinkles creased his flesh like scars, but you could tell he had been somewhat handsome in his youth. His features were well-proportioned, his eyes large and blue with prominent black eyebrows, even though they should have been gray due to his age, and his jaw line was broad and masculine. But the magical and alchemical experiments he had conducted over the years in the hope of turning himself into something ‘more than human’ had taken a drastic toll upon his flesh. The crowd split apart and formed a path to the stage out of fear and respect as he approached. They stared at him with deep apprehension. No one in the audience knew what to expect. No one had ever heard the Bricoleur speak before. He stepped onto the stage slowly, his white robe long and pristine, his face now holding a gruesome aspect under the bright lights. The tension in the air grew and more people walked out of the bar. Only two thirds of the original audience remained by the time he stepped to the center of the stage. He stood between the bass player and drummer, all three musicians still unconscious. He raised his hands to quiet the audience, even though they were already dead silent. “Before I divulge my main points,” said the Bricoleur in a thick English accent, “I would like to show you something. Please observe.” He lifted a straight razor from the pocket of his robe and swiftly moved it down his right arm, making a deep slash in the main artery. Blood gushed and people screamed. The Bricoleur turned to the other arm and cut the main artery there as well. Blood poured from both wounds. He held out his arms and his feet rose from the stage, his body rising several inches from the floor, he began to slowly revolve. The deep maroon liquid poured from his outstretched arms and he rotated in the air as if his midsection were on an axis. More screams from the audience and deep gasps as they watched the Bricoleur’s rotation and the sheets of blood falling. Surprisingly, most of the spectators did not leave. The Bricoleur completed his revolution and came to rest in the exact spot where he had first stood. The blood continued pouring and he raised both arms and with a slow pumping motion urged the audience to be calm. “There is nothing to worry about. Do not panic. I will fix this.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and took out the amulet he had carried to the stage. He brought it up and examined it and waved it slowly over the wounds on both arms, drawing it forward and back without making contact with his skin. The blood quickly evaporated and the flesh sealed over. He raised his newly healed arms above his head, the amulet dangling by its leather string, and the audience could see it was in the shape of a pentagram with the number 93 in the center, the metal a dull gray color but portions sparkling glossy black as it revolved under the lights.
After sealing his wounds, the Bricoleur’s face was calm as he scrutinized the audience, and his intense interest in them bordered on the macabre. He didn’t speak for almost a full minute and the audience remained silent. More people couldn’t handle the tension and exited the club. Finally the Bricoleur spoke in a deeper voice than before, one that rose in pitch on nearly every syllable. “Over the last two weeks you have witnessed one of the greatest bands the world will ever see, even though most of you do not possess the intelligence to fully appreciate it. The improvisations of the experimental jazz trio Abrahadabra 93 were almost perfect in every way, and the group could function in a capacity that bordered on being telepathic.” He paused and noticed a few audience members in the front row staring down at the unconscious musicians on the stage. The Bricoleur was standing between the bass player and drummer, the first laying on his side, the other sprawled on his back. “Do not worry about the musicians you see on stage. They are unconscious, but still in perfect health. I had to put them under hypnosis while giving this address because when I am not directing them they can behave quite aggressively toward me. You should know they are not playing in this band of their own accord, I had to force them to participate. Occasionally when I direct their improvisations and cause them to move away from their common instinctual patterns of thinking, it can cause them great amounts of pain. But I was forced to do so for the sake of the music. The improvisations you witnessed made it necessary. “Now I will attempt to relate the true goal I envisioned with the music. It will not be pleasant to hear. But try to stay where you are and understand because there is more to my plan, and every person in this room will soon be apart of it. My original goal was to destroy everyone who heard the music. I wanted the improvisations to be so pure, the music so unexpected and original from anything that had come before that it would startle the listener into a state of emotional shock, which they would never recover from and eventually die. I wanted to annihilate the audience and the listeners with the music, I wanted to become an assassin with jazz. I wanted to give the listener so much pleasure in a form so pure that their minds would shut down and auditory senses refuse to take it in. I did manage to succeed in causing a few deaths, but they were far from enough for me. I also wanted to commit the greatest crime in the history of the world through an artistic medium – I wasn’t sure what it would be exactly – but I decided to do it through music. Those were my main goals, although I did not succeed. Now I realize my expertise with the Kabbalah was not at a sufficiently high level, my magical skills were not developed enough. I could not arrive at the true forces of nature and manipulate them... But I still have the ability to do other things.” Two police officers came out of the hall leading to the restrooms and stood with their arms crossed, watching the Bricoleur and listening to his threatening speech. The Bricoleur knew if he failed he would be arrested, but if the next part of his plan were to succeed, even the police would be under his control. A few more people in the audience turned and attempted to walk out of the club. “Wait, do not depart yet,” said the Bricoleur. He raised the amulet above his
shoulders and moved it back and forth causing it to sway from the leather string. The police officers took a few steps forward and the swaying amulet seemed to expand in the air, the 93 in the center swelling and becoming more prominent, the color of the pentagram changing from black to a bright shade of red. The audience panicked and many headed for the exits. Then the Bricoleur spoke again in a deep voice, ‘Abrahadabra 93... the Bricoleur will create as he speaks... Abrahadabra 93... the Bricoleur will create as he speaks...’ The phrase started to work on the audience. People stopped walking and stood rigid in place, not even turning around to their original positions. Their eyes were locked and their faces almost blank. The Bricoleur continued repeating the phrase and moving the amulet, the 93 steadily increasing in size, the pentagram growing so dark maroon it was almost invisible. Then the trumpet player’s leg next to the Bricoleur stirred. The bass player’s arm flinched next, and he slowly brought it up and rubbed his eyes. The Bricoleur did not see the movements, he was still moving his amulet attempting to hypnotize the audience. A gray plume of smoke rose from his feet, flowed out and dissipated into the club. The two police officers were falling under the Bricoleur’s amulet spell along with everyone else in the audience. Then the drummer’s legs moved, and after a few seconds he was pushing himself to his knees. The trumpet player and bassist started to rise as the Bricoleur continued swinging the amulet and speaking his most powerful phrase, attempting to put the entire crowd into a trance. The trumpet player rubbed his eyes groggily and staggered around like a drunkard, but the Bricoleur paid no attention. The drummer swayed also, the previous narcotic spell still assaulting him, but he was determined to fight against it while the Bricoleur’s attention was drawn elsewhere. The trumpet player stepped behind the Bricoleur, wrapped his arms around his torso and squeezed. The Bricoleur jolted and brought his arm down with the amulet, stopping his hypnosis ritual. The bass player realized what the trumpet player was doing, went to the drum kit and unscrewed the closest cymbal. The Bricoleur struggled to get free and started speaking phrases in Aramaic to give him more strength, but he couldn’t finish most of the words before the trumpet player would squeeze his torso as hard as possible, cutting him off. The bass player got the cymbal off the stand, went over and pressed the sharp edge of it to the side of the Bricoleur’s neck. With one hand holding it from the bottom, he used his other palm to slam the edge as hard as possible, sending the sharp metal into the Bricoleur’s flesh, cramming it half way through his thick neck. The crowd gasped but the Bricoleur didn’t even scream as the cymbal went in. And his head also didn’t completely separate from his spinal column, it fell to one side and hung ominously as the musicians continued holding his body upright. The drummer got to his feet and noticed what was happening. He wanted to help but was also somewhat sickened by the partially decapitated body in front of him. After a brief hesitation he reached up and took hold of the Bricoleur’s head and pulled it off the rest of the way. The headless body the band member’s were holding spasmed for several seconds, then they all stepped away and the Bricoleur fell to the stage, his torso
shaking with blood still oozing from the neck. The musicians of Abrahadabra 93 stood looking out at the audience, not knowing what to say or do, still partly confused from the Bricoleur’s previous narcotic spell. The drummer looked down and found himself holding the Bricoleur’s severed head, he brought it up to his face and looked into its eyes. The head was still alive, its eyes blinking slowly, a disturbing grimace on its face. The severed head began to speak in a soft whisper, “This is the best thing for me. I did not deserve to live. I was doomed from the beginning. I wanted to end my life a long time ago. That is why I made no sound when the cymbal entered my flesh. Now I am finally free. Thank you for releasing me. The horror of my life has ended and I am glad and satisfied.” The eyes shut and the mouth closed. The three musicians and most of the audience had heard the Bricoleur’s final words. Now he was gone. The drummer dropped the severed head and backed away. The police officers finally broke out of the Bricoleur’s trance, ran to the stage pulling out their radios reporting that they needed backup. Most of the audience exited the club. Two ambulances and a fire truck arrived along with several police cars. The members of Abrahadabra 93 gave a statement to the police, packed up their individual equipment, loaded it into their respective cars, and drove home.
seven “So were you there last night?” “Yes.” “I didn’t see you.” “I was in the back. In a far corner.” “Did you almost get hypnotized with the rest of us, did you feel the effects of the Bricoleur waving the amulet?” “Yes.” “Did you see the 93 expanding? I couldn’t believe it was growing right in front of us and turning red, then almost going invisible.” “I was scared.” “So was I. What did you think of the music the band was playing before the chaos broke out?” “Better than I expected. Although I couldn’t appreciate most of the technical aspects of the sophisticated improvisations. Most of what I heard though, I enjoyed very much.” “I couldn’t believe the Bricoleur explained his intentions behind the music, what he wanted to accomplish through his manipulation of the jazz trio.” “I couldn’t believe it either.” “I wonder what he was going to do after he had us all hypnotized.” “Who knows.” “What do you think will happen now?”
“What do you mean.” “Surely everything won’t just go back to normal after this.” “Why wouldn’t it.” “Something happened with the music, Abrahadabra 93’s improvisations, they changed something... about the town, about the people, or maybe just about myself. But something definitely changed, I can feel it, don’t you think things will never be the same around here ever again?” “I don’t feel that anything has changed.” Pause. “You really don’t.” “No.” “I do. I know something has changed.” “I’ve decided to start studying the Kabbalah.” “What?” “I signed up for Kabbalah classes at one of the centers down town.” “Why would you do that?” Silence. “Did you hear me? Why would you want to start studying the Kabbalah?” Silence. “Hello? Are you there?” Silence. “Why don’t you answer me.” Silence... Finally: “Abrahadabra 93. The Bricoleur will create as he speaks.” -end(Thanks for reading. If you know of any magazines that would like to publish this story, please contact the author. Also, you would be helping out the author greatly if you purchased one of his books from Amazon.com or another online book store. Thanks again.) http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/ http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711 Bio: Jason Earls is the author of Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Red Zen (taught by Prof. Robert Siegle at Virginia Tech), If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); }, and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, M-Brane SF, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover’s books, Mathworld.com, AlienSkin, Recreational and Educational Computing, Escaping Elsewhere, Neometropolis, Thirteen, Dogmatika, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Nocturnal Ooze, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, and other publications. He currently resides in Oklahoma with his wife, Christine.