“Camptown Races!” yelled some dimwit.
The life of a saloon pianist: taking mundane requests from the unwashed masses.
I had such lofty aspirations too: big European opera houses, untold riches, adoring fans. But here I was wasting away in some dusty old saloon playing nothing but Stephen stinkin’ Foster.
That was until the day McCall waltzed in.
He drew his Colt .45 and put one right in the back of Hickok’s head. As I watched “Wild Bill’s” blood pool on the poker table, I thought the unthinkable: maybe a rousing rendition of “Camptown Races” wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The Weekday One Hundred 