INT. IMPERIAL BALLROOM—BANDSTAND—DANCE FLOOR. NIGHT.

BUFORD springs from his chair on the bandstand and launches into a blistering solo.

BLACK and WHITE FACES snap round toward the urgent clarion call of the tenor sax to watch BUFORD’s gut-bucket honking in stupefied astonishment.

He suddenly drops to his knees and leans back with the tenor sax pointing upward toward the ceiling, bleating and squealing like a sacrificial lamb.

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