The Content Mill

From the first days in the trenches when he found the first, Ellington’s Bones spoke to him. It took him weeks to determine that the dissonant whispers nagging at the back of his mind, edging in from his periphery, were emanating from the bone of unknown origin in the mud. A rat femur. Or rabbit, perhaps.

The whispers never calmed though, not until he found more. Overlaying tones coalescing into something, though he was never quite sure what. But they spoke, he was sure of that.

He worked them and they helped him. He lived through the war because of them, and he found his livelihood too.

The Empties though, he was never quite sure if he found them or the Bones did.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

Gianni is GianniDiCrosta

Nate is HeroicHeadgear

Phil is Phil Bothun

Mr. Ree's apartment door was loosely swinging on rusted hinges. The dial tone of a phone echoed through the hall, an incessant ringing too loud to make any sense.

I shoved the door open with a gloved hand and stood in the doorway, my eyes unable to settle on what I saw. Newspapers covered everything. Stacks of every rag and sheet available between the rivers teetered like funhouse skyscrapers. The walls, floors, and furniture were covered with papers, inky contours wrapping every table leg and hiding every speck of plaster on the walls.

And the red. It was hard to tell the red pen and the red leaking from Mr. Ree's body apart.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

There were a lot of things that Ellington brought back from the War. Scars, callousness, his crew, and his Bones. Few things in his life were as hard-won and cherished as that vibraphone, built piece by piece over his years in the trenches.

When he played, they sang. When they talked, he listened. And right now, they were telling a very interesting story.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

Ten years ago. A soirée at War’s end. Combat boots and heels gliding along floors slick with champagne suds and gin. The sound of lost loves and newfound ones pounding in rhythm to the exuberant roars of a band letting loose.

Romance was in the air and Ellington was loving it. Four long years and he was back; back in front of a crowd, and backed by his newfound friends: The Emptys.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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The Dame. The Broad. Madame Noir. The Woman with Black Hair. She had so many names and came from so many places it was hard to keep track.

Behind the facade, who she truly is was hard to say anymore. They were like oil, glistening and swirling together, a rainbow of identity that only coalesces in unity when looked at the right way.

She sipped her drink, waiting for Ellington to say something.

Ice swirled in the frosted glass, clinking like neurons. Was the job just a distraction to get some time with the Emptys? Or did she really want that musty detective to find her?

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Nate is HeroicHeadgear

Phil is Phil Bothun

I peeled off a handful of bills and handed them to the cabbie, tipping my hat and pulling the collar of my coat close. The weather had not improved since I left Ellington and the Emptys on the boardwalk and I was grateful for the stack of cash the Dame had handed me.

The case made no sense, but in this city the difference between reality and fantasy was blurry on a good day.

Trash flanked the entry to the building, piled like cord wood. I found Mr. Ree's apartment and rang, getting an electric shock from the buzzer for my courtesy. The button popped out and rolled to the door. Propped open with a Gideon's Bible, I let myself through the door. An out of order sign hung from the elevator.

Time to climb.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

The Empty fortune hails from the Pacific Northwest somewhere. There's no real defined story and you'd never be able to nail Earl down on a real answer anyways—believe me, I've tried—but it really doesn't matter.

This outfit was masquerading as a normal down-on-its-luck jazz troupe playing dives all up and down the east coast, when at least three of them had generational money from families they were avoiding. Earl, Ellington, and that guy on the sax...what was his name?

I'd end up getting to the bottom of each of them in time. For now though, I was chatting business, the first business I've had in a long time. The Dame handed me a telegram, two hundred bucks, and a card for a Mr. Ree with an office in the upper west side.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

Patinated brass and well-worn sheets of music. Blue light reflected off the chipped keys of the piano as Earl hammered out some melodious racket. It all blurred together for Ellington, the sound, the lights and the smoke. So much smoke. But through it all, there she was.

Ellington—if that was his real name—had never seen a woman quite like her before. Indescribable, but desirable nonetheless. And there she was, sidling up to that musty gumshoe.

Ellington set his mallets down and slid off the stage, his stride longer than his shadow. Smooth. Ellington was always smooth.

Little did he know how much this year—this new year—was going to be one he’d never forget.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

The juice was pouring and Ellington was playin' them bones like no other. It had been months since that foggy evening I first stumbled into this joint, and times had changed. It was that time of year and every Tom, Dick, or Harry was bustling in for some tunes and a warm-me-up between bouts of boardwalk shopping.

I was tapping my toes and slugging gins, watching an Old St. Nick get too deep into his milk and cookies, if you know what I mean. His friend, Jingle or Tingle or whatever, swooped in and ushered him back to some mall, I'm sure.

People moved in a blur, patrons cycling in and out, shopping bags and jingling bells the dissonance to Ellington and his Empties' harmony. I was merry for a moment.

And then she walked in.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun

The track held nothing for me, no dame in a fascinator or the pound of hoof beats could pull me from this stupor. So I walked along the boardwalk, rain slicking the creaking wood. A seafood shack styled as a golden ship, a rinky dink cafe ablaze with the Big Apple's skyline, none of it drew me in.

Like a beacon in a storm, a club marquee flickered in the evening fog—it had been hours since I left the office—smoke pouring from the doorway. Names in broken bulbs announced the act, missing letters like teeth punched out. The lilt of oboes, the mournful wail of a trumpet, and the syncopated groove of a vibrakzzkt oozed out as a patron was tossed out the door.

My life was about to change that night, and all it took was some gin and an evening with Ellington and the Empties.

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Eric is MrTheHuman

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Phil is Phil Bothun