Ice Noodle followed melodic sounds through the mansion, and ended up in the great room where he found Mush Pump behind Daryl's highly-polished Steinway. “What're you doing in here?” he asked. “We're in the middle of a scene.”

     “Come. Sit.” Mush Pump ran his fingers up and down the keys. “Let us attempt to do that which songwriters do.”

     “News flash: this is fiction.” Ice Noodle fingered the metronome. “We just say he writes songs, we don't actually write them.”

     “Yes, but what if the book were to become a bestseller? What if Hollywood were to call? Then Daryl would have to perform on the screen, would he not? He couldn't simply sit and announce, 'Hark! I'm composing!'”

     “Hollywood hires songwriters for stuff like that.”

     Mush Pump played louder, the melody rising to the cathedral ceiling. “Sound familiar?” he asked.

     “Déjà vu.” Ice Noodle sat beside him. “Where was it?”

     “In your sleep,” said Mush Pump, glancing at him. “By the by, when you hear me creating in the middle of the night, the proper thing to do is wake up and write it down.”

     “Happy tune.” Ice Noodle bobbed his head. “I see a carefree guy skipping down the road.”

     “Innocent. In love with life. Not yet jaded by this business. Still believing a professional musician plays and writes music all day long.” Mush Pump changed chords, increasing the tempo. “Here, he first meets those who believe a musician's entire worth relies upon his ability to regurgitate the same hit song over and over—”

     “Geeez.” Ice Noodle groaned, and Mush Pump immediately froze his hands.

     “Whiny, I presume?”

     “Just a tad.”

     “Very well. You give it a go.”

     Ice Noodle closed his eyes as Mush Pump played. “I hear the ocean in that part. Maybe the guy's running on the beach—”

     “Pursuing someone?”

     “Maybe.”

     “A beautiful woman.”

     “Always with the woman.”

     Mush Pump stopped playing. “It's a well-known fact the best songs, the classic ones, mind you, are written about relationships. Failed relationships, in particular. Stands to reason if you wish to communicate with the majority of—”

     “Hey, you just create the music,” said Ice Noodle, pointing at the keys. “I'll add the reason.”

     Mush Pump resumed his song. “Perhaps this part should go up rather than down.”

     “Too slow.”

     “Requisite of a ballad, my friend.”

     “Doesn't mean you got to milk every note.”

     Mush Pump sighed. “I'm creating a mood.”

     “Yeah, for falling asleep.”

     “Oh, what do you know about it, you insensitive clod of gray matter!”

     Shocked, Ice Noodle jumped up and stormed out of the room.

     Mush Pump gently closed the key cover. “Right you are, then,” he said as he rose. “We don't write the bloody songs.”