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The Bean Master

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Once upon a time, yo, I was droppin’ these mad beats. I mean, my jams were killer, man. It was Tommy Finkelstein’s bar mitzvah, my first paying gig, and the kids loved me! I was catching the eyes of some of the hot mamas in the crowd too, I kid you not. Mrs. Finkelstein was totally picking up what I was putting down.

An hour into the party, right as I was hitting my stride, melding this sweet Prince song into a Michael Jackson one with this sick wizzy wizzy wick, Tommy’s brother Joel comes tearing by with a cup in his hand. The narbo. He trips, and the cup flies toward me. I just know there’s about to be Crystal Pepsi all over my turntable. I was buggin.’ I had to mow my Aunt Ruth’s lawn for two summers to earn enough money for my turntable.

But to my relief, the cup was only filled with dried beans. Weird, right? They flew onto my turntable and started vibrating, twittering and trembling to the bass coming from my sick speakers. So I thought, hey man, no problem. I’ll just scratch the turntable a bit and shake them off.

But yo, man, these beans were magic. I swear, no lie! They started jumping and jamming to my beats. Two of them must’ve been Michael Jackson fans; they were moonwalking. Others started turning my EQ knobs to pull out the bass. I gotta admit, despite not having ears, these beans’ mixing was killer. The kids were amped. It was schweet!

Mrs. Finklestein, though, needed a chill pill; she started yelling at Joel for getting into his father’s experiments. Joel whined that he’d only wanted to show the beans to Lily Oppenheimer, this girl he’s crushing on. Mrs. F wasn’t having it; she yelled for her husband. I’s afraid Mr. F. would be fuming to the max, so I quickly played a Bangles song to calm him down. Mr. F. thinks Susanna Hoff’s wicked hot.

But when Mr. F came in, he just shook his head like he was bummed and said, ‘Too late. The specimens have imprinted on the DJ.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but whatevs. By this point, me and the beans had become BFFs. So I quickly said that I’d be happy to take them as payment. A Numark 1775 mixer is so bunk compared to magic beans, ya know? The Finkelsteins agreed, so now the beans and I are in serious rehearsals.

These beans and me, yo? We’re going to be famous!

So when you see me spinning my jams at the most happenin’ clubs in New York City, remember that you heard my name here first: Melvin Koszlawski, DJ Bean Master Def.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Zoe Powell is a steampunk and urban fantasy writer who lives in Chicago.

 

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