Quietly, he arises from his stupor, quietly slips on spilled...well, he slips on it...and finally crawls across the slippery floor to the trumpet (yes, I nearly wrote 'strumpet', okay?) case nearly hidden behind the potted palms.

Damn, he thinks, as the drunken hands clutch at him, I wish that SINSULL would'nt pour her unwanted drinks in these. And if they don't stop that, they'll not only be potted, but hairy, palms as well.

But he retrieves the trumpet case and crawls nearer the fire. Opening it, he removes a horn of silver and the deepest, darkest, midnight blue. He inserts the mouthpiece, moves the valves a few times to loosen them up, and pointing the bell at the fireplace, blows one clear, crisp G natural.

Then, assuring himself that it is still in tune, he lets off a riff, a glissando from high F to low C and back, that hangs like a brilliant crystal icicle in the air, so pure and cold that it seems starlike.

And then, a marvelous thing happens. The fire seems to catch its breath, the freeze, and to reverse itself. In a few seconds guitars slide quietly from the ashes, across the carpet, a Gibson first, a Martin, a second Martin, and more.

He empties the spit valve on the floor, figuring that a bit of spit can't be worse than what's there, removes the mouthpiece, and put the instrument away.

"Gotta watch it," he mutters. "Too much of that can crack a planet. Thank God the Final Trump is something controllable and not something like an accordion or a banjo."

And he calls for hoochanoo, his good deed for the year done.