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The National Conservatory of Music

They sit at the bus stop and dusk approaches.  They both keep bananas in their pockets in case they ever got hungry.  But both of them hate bananas and probably wouldn't eat a banana even if they were starving to death.  As a result, the bananas often rot in their pockets and fruit flies are attracted to them.  And monkeys.  It is not uncommon for monkeys to attack from the trees, packs of them, all screaming and baring their teeth.

Why do we do this, McTruder?

What?  Bananas?

No, wait here.  We both know the bus isn't coming.

I guess for the same reason we keep bananas in our pockets.

So that we don't starve to death?

No, because we might be traumatized.


It's true.  Everyday they wait at the bus stop on the bench in the jungle.  The bus stop sign has long ago been worn of any information.  The bench's wood has started rotting in some parts.  The road which the "bus" will drive down has turned partway into jungle.  A gentle breeze gently ruffles the hair on their heads.  Birds squawk intermittently.  Distant crashing waves can faintly be heard. 

It's a nice location, though, isn't McTruder.  Nice and peaceful.  Frankly, I think I'd be rather terrified if a bus came along.  Where do you suppose it would take us?  I reckon it would take us all the way to hell.

I think this road leads to the National Conservatory of Music, replies McTruder. 

You don't say.

It's true.  I've been there.


No, when I was younger.

You don't say.

All the music you could listen to.  Ever.

How about that.

It was something, let me tell you.

I can just imagine.

The gentle breeze really picks up and ruffles their clothes, and sends some Jungle Debris their way.  Large ants have found the bananas in their pockets and gather there.  In the distance there is thunder. 

Sounds like a storm is coming, eh McTruder.

Sounds like the five o'clock storm to me.

You'd think after all these years I would be ready for it.

Ready for what?

For the storm.


It's true.  Everyday at five o'clock a storm blows in, and it is their only source of bathing.  It washes away any bugs which might have called their hair home, and the ants also leave for the day.

I just had an idea, McTruder.


Maybe what we're really waiting for is the storm, and it's transportative properties.

I don't follow.

You know how the storm transports you?  Much like a bus would.

Like a bus, eh?

Mmmm-hmmm.  Like a bus.

Where does the storm take you?

I can never remember, or the location is too abstract to form into words.

It's not the National Conservatory of Music, is it?  Because that would make sense.

I couldn't be sure.  Can music be transcribed into a numbered code?

I'm sure it could be.

Then maybe it is.

The storm billows and thunders towards them.  The ruffling wind now drowns their voices and some Jungle trees are falling about them.  Jackson would like to tell McTruder, "Bon Voyage", but the wind is too violent, and poor McTruder would only get confused.  Lightning cracks nearby, and the rain starts.  McTruder being the lighter one is first to go. He tries postponing his departure, but his grip on the bench slips and off he goes, not unlike a piece of Jungle Debris.

Jackson goes next.  He doesn't even try clinging to anything.  He welcomes the storm and his next destination with open arms and a large wind ruffled smile. 

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