In the 1960's there was a washed up lounge singer that worked a nightly gig in a seedy little lounge off the Vegas strip. This lounge singer sitting on stage looking like burnt out caricature of Sinatra in a cheap piss yellow suit, like a trashy bird perched in a dark smokey cage. He sits there and he sings with his audience half listening, half drunk and he does his act the same way every night. First he sings, and then he finishes his act by telling the same story every night:
"Baby," he says as he lights up a cigarette.
"We almost made is big."
And the band plays this slow jazz in the background.
"We were on the fast track baby."
The band, plays this slow bluesy jazz that fills in every single second of silence in his story.
"We were going places. Just you and me Honey... Honey, we almost made it... All the way to the top."
The Bass player always looks like he's about to fall asleep.
"And baby, you were beautiful. We started going to all the best parties, we were friends with all the stars... Honey we got all the way out to Hollywood. They were gonna put you in pictures honey..."
And then the lounge singer just leans back and sneers at the audience:
"But then you got fat."
And the audience starts laughing.
"You just couldn't put down the cheesecake, you started using the heel of your palm to just jam more of it down... Then, everything changed. We stopped getting invited to parties, you stopped fitting in those dresses... It all ended baby... And now I'm here..."
And then he'd walk off the stage and the band just kept playing that slow bluesy jazz.
But then one night something different happened. Just as the lounge singer said the line "And then you got fat." A gunshot rang out in the audience.
The lounge singer. He drops the mic. And then he falls down dead. In the audience, a fat woman stands holding a revolver, still smoking as tears cascade down her cheeks.
And the band keeps playing, because they think it's all still part of the act.
And the audience cheers.