The Immortal Tuba: Part II of III

Oh, wow, thanks to all my reviewers. I had no idea this would inspire that much interest. Well, here's the second part… yes, I know. I have a confession: it's not done yet. I just realized that it's longer than I expected at first, and so there's still a third to go. Sorry.

ShinyK: Lol, no. Actually, I'm a flutist. I just like to make fun of myself a lot, and I suppose that was my way of doing it. Don't ask. I'm weird like that.


Seventy-six miles away, hidden in a barn colored with peeling red paint, sat a masked man next to a large black case. The straw he was sitting in was itchy, and beginning to aggravate his allergies. He sneezed twice.

Damn this straw, he thought miserably, damn this whole entire stupid plan.

The man had been inside that barn since dawn broke that morning, snacking on various food items he had stored in his backpack, napping for short intervals at a time. One might think him homeless but he knew better.

And after he got this thing sold on one of those online auction sites that kept popping up all over the place, he knew he'd be far from homeless.

As soon as the sun began to set, he packed up everything he had, including the wrappers from his dinner. He checked three times to make sure that nothing was left behind, then began to kick around the straw on the ground, trying to make it look as natural as possible.

Good... he thought, Good.

The hay bales were scattered haphazardly in the corner, and there was a row of leather bridles hanging on pegs against a wall. It looked completely natural, as a barn should.

No one would know.


Several months passed by and autumn faded into a bitter, cold winter. The Reighsly Marching Ruffians were crushed, as no one had reported any information at all about their missing sousaphone. Though marching season was now over, the band director called an emergency practice after school one uneventful Thursday.

"Hello, all," he greeted them dully as they filed in around him, settling upon the band room floor. "I believe it's time to declare our old friend missing for good."

Sighs and groans of rage sounded from all of the band members.

"But, Mr. P" a trumpet player ejected loudly, before being cut off.

"We've done all we can." He sighed resignedly and continued. "Posters have been put up everywhere. The police have been alerted. I've checked with local band directors. I even put up a notice on the internet, for crying out loud. There's nothing else to be done. I suppose I'll have to look to investing in a new sousaphone."

The band looked downcast at this final announcement. Shocked, the band director continued. "It's not as bad as it seems."

The flute section leader spoke up. "Yes it is. How will we ever…?" Her voice was quickly overwhelmed by shouts of protests.

"Next year will be our first"

"I can't believe"

"Are you serious?"

"We're all doomed!"

"no hope for us ever again!"

At this last statement the small freshman stood up. However, this made very little impact. He instead pulled over a chair and stood on it, looking down at his fellow band members. "Hold on!" he shouted.

Everyone stopped clamoring and gazed up at him curiously. Even compared to your average freshman, this kid was abnormally quiet. Only a few of them had actually ever heard him talk before.

"I-I think you all have the w-wrong idea," he said tremulously, watching the others around him exchange looks of skepticism. "This isn't band."

Someone from the back of the room began to shout. "What? Are you" He was quickly cut off.

"Let the kid speak!"

The little freshman spoke again. "Just because we don't have that magic sousa— I mean, j-just because we don't have the old s-sousaphone doesn't mean we can't win ever again."

But the band refused to hear him out. He leaped down from his chair, disappointed,as the band was dismissed.


NEXT CHAPTER: Part III/III of the Immortal Tuba
COMING SOON: What if your band director was really an alien in disguise?
AND AFTER THAT (or maybe before, who knows?): Something about a band advice column.