The Ominous Mr. Martini

THE OMINOUS MR. MARTINI

The morning of the eve of my birthday was a lazy and lonely one until I received an unexpected visit from my devious friend whom I have not seen in years, The Ominous Mr. Martini.

I was taken aback by his sudden visit, but he remained emotionless, as if I had not yet answered the door. As soon as I realized that he had soiled himself, he threw his arms in the air and screamed, “What hath God wrought?” before embracing me. Then, after clearing his sinuses, he tweaked his greased mustache and winked as he turned his left shoulder towards me, then skipped merrily through my yard in a futile attempt to coax me into frolicking with him in the cool morning dew. I refused.

I knew he had spent much of the morning, if not all night, in my yard because his monocle was foggy with the accumulation of dew. As I watched him disturb the overpopulated squirrel community, I noticed his felt hat hanging from the antenna of my ancient Cadillac and his cane forced into the soft earth, propping up a sycamore branch in full bloom that he tore from one of the many trees that keep my yard walled off from the outside world. That was his shelter from the storm.

“You fool!” I shouted, “You have torn up my yard and shit your own pants like the senile infant you are. Go back to Hell, from where you came, and leave me and my dignity alone.” I began to sob out of anger as I preached to Mr. Martini, “You are a selfish beast; a beast who at one time lovingly violated my innocence. You are a beast who has left me, without word, alone and broken. A beast from whom I want nothing. Three years you have been gone, and by no means can you, nor should you, show up and waltz, quite literally, through my yard like the flirt and the tease you once were. My eyes have since been opened, and you are a false prophet. You shall not be forgiven by me. Go forth in all of God’s glory and repent your evil, sick, and ominous ways. For, as God as my witness, Mr. Martini, there is no room on this Earthnor in Heaven or Hellfor a beast such as you.”

During my sermon, Mr. Martini had climbed the same sycamore tree from which he amputated the branch and perched himself in quite an ashamed fetal position, remaining still until I finished my lecture. He had embarrassed himself, and he knew it. And so, to relieve his frustration, he screeched a three-note melody using the lyric “Nevermore.”

“You blaspheme.” I scolded.

I slammed the door and returned to my once-warm sofa just in time to catch Bette Davis on the television saying “I’d love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.” Today will be nice. Tomorrow is my birthday. Today I will rest, as long as I can ignore that horrible man flapping his arms and squawking while perched in my tree. I could shoot him; he’s a deranged alcoholic; an abusive man-handler; a professional manipulator whose prey are the insecure, confused, and innocent; an evil and treacherous bigot with a lust for scotch second only to his lust for secretive, shunned romances . . . but so am I. I cannot shoot him.

Why, O Lord? Why must I be tormented so? I am in great need of your counsel as to whether I should ignore and forget or to go outside and return to that beautiful man, to comfort him in his time of screaming from tree branches; to forgive. Mr. Martini is not on your side, damn it! I told him he must repent for you, Lord, as he once did for me. But I am weak. Mr. Martini knows this well. I am a good person, Lordone of your best and you know that well enoughso why have you sent that beast back to me?

My coffee had gone cold. I forgot to turn on the warmer. It began to thunder outside which was followed by the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof. Upon peering out the window, I noticed Mr. Martini rotate his head a complete 360 degrees as he seemed to change character from Raven to Owl.

“You’ve always been a magnificent performer, Mr. Martini.” I whispered. “But now I must let you in and put you in some clean, dry clothes and apologize for my inconsiderate behavior as you have visited me on the eve of my birthday. You may even have a gift for me!”

Somehow, I felt that Mr. Martini heard every word I said. My narrating had clumsily fumbled from past to present tense and from first to third person, but he won't mind. Upon realizing this, I saw Mr. Martini slither down the tree, put on his felt hat and frock coat, adjust his monocle, vomit, check his pocket-watch, and grab his cane. As the rain stopped and the sun came back out, he started down the road in a very humble and jolly manner . . . as humble and jolly as one can be after spending all morning in the rain with trousers full of one’s own excrement while perched in a tree screaming “Nevermore” for no good reason other than for the divine right to relieve the occasional and usually short-lived desire for insanity.

The Ominous Mr. Martini's history consists of him sitting alone writing & recording songs for the past three years. Riveting.

I am currently a recording artist. I play all the instruments and engineer the recording, etc.

My music is influenced by quite a wide range of artists and the like ...

The two people who've had the biggest influence on me musically would be Joe Strummer & Bob Dylan.

MXL, CAD, & AKG condenser mics, an old Peavey T-40 bass, a Les Paul, a 12-string acoustic strung as a 6-string with a huge hole in the side of it (sounds great for a Carlos Robelli), 1 Alesis and 1 Fostex mixer, a mandolin, a Ukulele, a tambourine, a set of hand-bells like churches use, a trumpet, an accordion, a few harmonicas ... and some fancy pants recording software.