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Goddamn You! Zygotic Mt. Mogwai

As a saxophonist in a successful post-rock band from Montreal, it is imperative that I keep my fingers and oral cavities well-honed and in peak condition, as an athlete would his calves and biceps. A shame, then, that one snowy night in the wilderness our tour bus crashes into a family of mountain cougars, and I am propelled through the window at an impressive rate of knots, severing my hands and throat in the process. Months later, as I lay recovering in a crisp hospital bed, my fifty three bandmates converge and tell me that they have no use for a saxophonist with no hands or throat. They stand there patiently and I start to explain that this is only a temporary setback, and that I will be as good as new for the rerecording of several tracks from our upcoming album, GGI-bin?hiatuS. My attempts at communication prove ineffective, however, my words misunderstood and my gestures unnoticed. They exit the room single file, until only the third drummer remains. She stares at me for a few moments, nodding her head thoughtfully, before she leans over and plants a delicate kiss on my lips. The taste lingers for the next six weeks until, finally, I exhale.