The Hottest Spot North of Havana
Author: DianaLecter (mischalecter@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG
Timeline: Non-applicable to any canon
Summary: Dr. Lecter the lounge singer?
Special thanks to Matt for mistakenly giving me this idea.
~~~
The night began like any other. Crowds at the bar were considerable, not overflowing, complimentary and tight-nit. While the owners liked to boast that brawls were a constant result of petty bickering, there were almost none to speak of. They had their regulars, of course, those who came back again and again on Friday nights. A specialty was on the roster for this evening—the notorious one night act, scheduled for the premier/finale at 9:00 PM. One song. Regardless of the oddity in detached regularity, the tables were overfilled with customers an hour in advance, all to hear the mysterious sensation before he arrived, performed, drank his pleasure and left.
He was punctual, and the owners liked it. The schedule demanded fifteen minutes in preparation before any debut. Similarly, his attire was selected to serve as an addition to his enigmatic persona. No one quite knew who he was, or why he was an attraction. There was no variety in his performance, a strict no-no on the offer of an encore, despite how his audience was predicted to beg for more.
Perchance it was the air about him that drew such attention. Needless to say, for those few minutes that he dominated the spotlight the managers noted that they sold more drinks and gained more regulars. For the first time since the bar opened they had exceeded the maximum occupancy limit as set by the fire marshal.
His attire was whimsical—unremarkable and homogeneous. It stood out simply for the fact that it conflicted with the classification of his title. An aqua-colored Mexican style fiesta shirt covered his upper torso, odd but still unexceptional from the styles of the bar's customers. His jeans were neither too tight nor too baggy, complete with a pair of knee-high cowboy boots. To top it all off, a bolo tie adorned his neck and a large sombrero hat crowned his head.
He arrived with a woman at his side, festooned in similar attire. A blindingly jovial Mexican-themed blouse draped her shoulders, along with a matching though smaller sombrero over her head. It was most obvious that they were aware of the peculiarity in the choice of clothing, and even more so that neither gave a damn.
The stage was ready for them when they arrived. Selected instruments included an old-fashioned country guitar and two maracas. When it became evident that this was the rumored main event, a hushed stillness spread across the bar and all eyes fell expectantly on the couple that now occupied the spotlight.
The man was slightly older than the woman, but little attention was paid to the stature of age and station. A minute or so passed as they set up the equipment—the man winking to his companion before he unnecessarily covered the maroon pigments of his eyes with dark shades. His guitar was propped enthusiastically in hand.
When everything was in full readiness, the woman neared the microphone and announced with a knowing smirk, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Hannibal the Cabana Boy!"
No sooner had she spoken did a strikingly familiar chord clout the air. Resounding confusion—and even—disappointment flickered out the writhing anticipation. When the woman saw the hasty reaction, she scurried back to the microphone and added, "With full apologies to Barry Manilow."
Then she was back, shaking the maracas as her companion began. His voice was eerie, though comically stimulating in the context. The crowd was divided between infatuated and rolling in hysterics.
"Her name was Cla-rice," the entertainer sang, birthing a whole new meaning to the word 'song.' "She was an a-gent. With a gun strapped at her side,
"And a face that ne-ver cried.
She would inquire,
And do the cha-cha—"At that, the maraca beat suffered a slight delay as his cohort looked at him sharply. Not berated, Hannibal the Cabana Boy fluently recognized his mistake and continued unhampered.
"And pray for gui-dance.
Amusing mind tricks she would play,
Hoping the next one wasn't filleted.
Sat on a dun-geon-floor,
And tra-ded-and-im-plored.
We were separated by society
And I wan-ted more.
At the Dungeon…Baltimore Dungeon.
The cruelest place to-ever-function.
At the Dungeon…Baltimore Duuuunnnngeeeeoonnnn.
Small cots and bad food makes Mc-Don-alds look good.
At the duuuuuuunnnngeeeeeoooonnnn.
I fell in luuuuuuuuuve."
In between verses, he shot a glance to his friend, whom was quite obviously Clarice, and smiled winningly. She returned it with full force before he turned attentively back to the audience.
"His name was Chil-ton,
He was a bas-tard.My books and drawings were taken away
Each time a visit was paid.
And then this one-day,
He decided to eaves-drop.
But Freddie went a bit too far,
His planning wasn't up to par.
My girl had set-me-free,
But in-ad-vert-ant-ly.
She was able to end the case,
But she ne-ver-for-got-me.
(Because of) The Dungeon…Baltimore Dungeon.
The cruelest place to-ever-function.
At the Dungeon…Baltimore Duuuunnnngeeeeoonnnn.
Small cots and bad food makes Mc-Don-alds look good.
At the duuuuuuunnnngeeeeeoooonnnn.
I left my luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuve.
The bridge took off, Clarice singing enthusiastically in the background. "Duuunnngeeeeeoooonnn, Baltimore Duuuuunnnnnggggeeeeeeoooonnnn."
Lecter smiled at her, his pearly whites causing a variety of reactions from the audience. When the musical break ran its course, he turned conscientiously back to the microphone, moving for the last verse.
"His name was Ma-son,
He was a freak-show.
He put a bounty on my head
Because I left him better for dead.
He hired some Sards;
I cut them open.
In that country far far away,
Mason had a lousy day.
Carlo could be-so-mean,
And he had bad hy-giene.
Clarice saved me from mindless torture,
And set her-self free.
From the Dungeon…Baltimore Dungeon.
The cruelest place to-ever-function.
At the Dungeon…Baltimore Duuuunnnngeeeeoonnnn.
Small cots and bad food makes Mc-Don-alds look good.
At the duuuuuuunnnngeeeeeoooonnnn.
We are in luuuuuuuuuvvvvveeeee."
However, when the end of the song was in sight, the chords moving for the finale, Clarice took the entire pub by surprise and stepped forward. She nodded positively to Hannibal, whose brows perked, but he could not deny her anything. Still beating the maracas with force, she flashed a winning smile and continued with an unplanned but very welcome addition.
"His name is Lec-ter;
He wants to eat-you.
He'll charm you like a snake,
Not a chance you'll want to take.
He's catatonic,
Or is he waiting?
Like a tiger stalking prey,
It's dumb to get in his way.He makes life-more-fun.
But make haste; don't walk, RUN!
We are quite a pair—he with a Harpy,
And I with my gun!
In the Dungeon…Baltimore Dungeon.
The cruelest place to-ever-function.
At the Dungeon…Baltimore Duuuunnnngeeeeoonnnn.
Small cots and bad food makes Mc-Don-alds look good.
At the duuuuuuunnnngeeeeeoooonnnn.
I met my luuuuuuuuuvvvvveeee."
The song ended with an almost instantaneous burst of applause. Lecter and Clarice stood from their respective posts, came forward, and took a much earned, simultaneous bow.
FIN