Bartholomew Buttercup, a trumpet player of questionable talent, stood backstage, his face a mask of nervous sweat. Tonight was the night. The annual village talent show, and Bartholomew, despite years of consistently dreadful performances, had convinced himself this was his year. He’d even practiced – sort of. Mostly, he’d practiced accidentally playing the wrong notes.
He peeked through the curtain. The hall buzzed with anticipation. His rival, a remarkably fluffy Pomeranian named Princess Fluffybutt III, who performed impressive acrobatic feats on a miniature unicycle, was currently receiving thunderous applause. Bartholomew gulped.
Finally, his name was called. He marched onstage, trumpet gleaming (slightly tarnished, but gleaming nonetheless), took a deep breath, and raised his instrument. A hush fell over the crowd.
He began to play. It was… a choice. A series of honks, squeaks, and the occasional mournful wail that sounded suspiciously like a dying walrus. Mid-way through his disastrous rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” a small child in the front row started crying. Another started giggling hysterically.
Bartholomew, sensing his impending doom, paused, his face redder than his already alarmingly crimson trumpet. He looked out at the audience, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperation. He opened his mouth to speak, intending to offer some sort of apology or explanation.
“I Don’t…” he began, his voice cracking.
The entire audience, holding their breath, waited with bated breath for his explanation. A dramatic pause hung heavy in the air. He took another deep breath. Then, in a clear, strong voice, he finished the sentence, “…know how to stop this thing!” He then accidentally blew a high-pitched note that shattered a nearby vase. The audience roared with laughter. Bartholomew, despite the vase casualty, accepted the resulting applause with a surprisingly smug grin. After all, he’d become a legend in his own bizarre way.
