*Authors Note: Please be advised that Rarity, In this story, was born in the 1920's and the current time is in the 1940's. So you get the point. Don't worry, I have a Delorean! Highfive if you got that*
Night on the streets. From the gutters, rats scurry about their grim business. The rain falls heavily and patters softly on the soaked asphalt. A single door stands in my wake, the Jazz club. The old place was packed full of rambunctious ponies and music. The cool mist of beer pumped through my lungs and ponies whispered to themselves as we entered through the door.
"Set up, get ready to play." My group leader demanded. Old coot never knows how to be polite though he was our lead singer, and was amazing at his talents.
I started for the corner, where we would began our jazz gig. Unpacking my trumpet carefully and trying not to cause scratches to invade it's glorified looks. I slowly slid my mouthpiece into its right position and blew a test note. At first, the greasy slides produced a light puff and my dry lips allowed no further playing. I licked my mouth and returned my position. This time, a slight squeak shot out of the end.
"Watch it Swag, don't bust your chops." One of my fellow players said. "You might split!"
"That slipped out- way too tight. Sorry." I apologized. The sudden high note made me confident about a long night of screeching.
"Two minutes guys! Hurry your asses up!" A drummer yelled. He raised his hoof and stared down his watch.
After setting up my stand and laying out my music, the growling crowed finally died down. They continued to whisper and chatter about our playing.
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The song started with a slight solo from a saxophone. He sounded so great and strong. Those saxes are always so proud of what they do. After a few measures, my body began to dance a bit. My trumpet mashed against my lips, but it made no pain for I was used to it. Many of the players moved around a bit and bobbed their heads to the the trumpet smooth chords. Our section all screeched as high as possible causing our moves to be very successful as the crowed grew interested. The crowed ponies did not know what we had planned, but every time the band got quite, we started back up. Towards the end of the song, we blared as loud as possible. Some of the ponies jumped and tipped their beer and wine glasses over. The drunk sleeping group in the back all quickly sprung up in shock. Laughing, I wiped my mouth from the residue of spit and small mix of blood from the high notes. Nothing a strong drink won't fix.
*Enjoy the music! It's my favorite jazz :D "In the Mood" by Glenn Miller*