User:Syndrome/crats
The sun was descending into twilight outside the windows of the talent agency as the old man prepared to close his dusty office for the day. After spending hours dealing with no-talent hacks showcasing some newfangled song or dance while he sat there with his head buried in his hands, he wanted more than to get back home to the safety of the family.
He had closed the window blinds and was standing in front of the door fishing for his keys when it was suddenly knocked upon. Sighing, the agent cracked open the door to see who it could be.
Outside was a tall man in a grey overcoat, panting lightly as if he had ran to get there in time. "I'm so glad you haven't left yet!" he beamed. "It's not every day I'm able to make a trip like this."
"And you are...?" the agent asked, with the reluctance of someone more polite than interested.
"Kronecker," he said in between pants. "Dave Kronecker. I had an appointment today?"
"Oh, yes... We had you down for 2:15," the agent said, displeased.
The man put his hand on the door as if to keep it open. "But you must understand! Our bus broke down fifty miles outside of town. We're lucky to have made it at all! Please, I can't return the children to the orphanage without giving them this chance. They've been training so hard for this! All they've done is talk about how excited they are to finally perform and--"
"All right, all right!" The agent threw up his hands and let the man come in. "I didn't know it was a children's act. My wife is always nagging me about not awarding enough contracts to children, the little buggers..."
Kronecker beamed a big smile, then turned to face the outside and whistled. In marched a line of children, of all ages and ethnicities, some with instruments comically too large for them. They wore red and gold uniforms that looked like they had been patched together from clothes at a thrift store. But each one of them had a patch sewn on to their shirts. It was a picture of a drum and underneath it read "Kronecker Orphanage Symphony Orchestra". After the last child had walked in, in came one more being pushed in a wheelchair. He was a small, sickly boy with a drum in his lap.
The agent rolled his eyes at the overly cute display and allowed them to get set up.
"This piece is called 'Tribute to Humanity'," Kronecker said and then stepped out of the way.
The boy in his wheelchair, in the center of a stage, began tapping out a simple rhythm on his tom-tom drum. The wind instrument section started playing a melody following his rhythm, and the string section joined in harmony to make what sounded surprisingly like chords of a piano. It sounded uncannily like something Bach would have written.
Smoothly and without causing any sort of disharmony, the boy changed his rhythm slightly and immediately the classical song segued into one with more of an Afro-Caribbean flavor. Those without instruments took the stage and begin dancing in perfect coordination. With every change of the drummer boy's beat, the entire act moved to a different part of the world. At times it was a Franco-Iberian flamenco and then it was an Austro-Celtic jig.
By the time it had concluded on a Mongolian-punk riff, the agent could only sit there and stare in disbelief. With everyone looking at him waiting to see what he thought, he finally regained his composure and spoke. "That was... incredible. I've never seen an act like that before. What would you call that?"
Kronecker looked annoyed. "I already told you. We're the Kronecker Symphony Orchestra and that piece was--"
He was interrupted by the sound of someone breaking down the door. In came four gay Jew nigger-chinks, dressed in fine clothes that they stole from gentlemen who tried to offer then spare changed. As they walked across the floor, drool dripped off their buckteeth past their huge lips, and it was clear that they hadn't had watermelon or matzoh in a while.
"It's a-me", one of them said in a painfully stereotypical Italian accent. "We've a-come to take back our star."
"That's roight", said another in a Cockney accent. He was brown like a potato and unbathed like an Irishman.
"No." Kronecker stepped forward to put himself in between them and the children. One with a French mustache cowered as if to surrender but then realized he wasn't being attacked. "I don't know how you followed us here, but the answer is no. We've been over this before. This state doesn't allow gay couples to adopt."
"But we're not a couple, eh?" said the French Canadian one. "We're a foursome!"
"The answer is still no. Now, if you come close to little Johnny again, I'll have to call the police. Goodbye, Mr. Aristocrats," he said as he herded them out the door.
"I am not liking this, da?" The big Russian one said as he was being forced to leave. "Agent, see our act! We start with little Johnny and--" the door slammed after him.
The Kronecker Symphony Orchestra got the contract and were able to earn enough money to keep the orphanage open. But it didn't matter because they all died of AIDS anyway.