When the Devil Comes Calling...

This is the city, Salt Lake. The Lake of Salt, better known as the city by the mire. Over a half million people call this place home. Some find amusement in ordinary ways, the movies, shopping, Carving butter into Garth Brooks Statues. There are all sorts of activities to be had in the city of salt. Some get there kicks the hard way. Boredom leads to diversity, they find their fun in the bizarre. When they do that's where I come in. My name is bob, I wear a kilt.

I was working the night watch out of south central when the call came in. It was another strange concert. Thousands were descending on the Events Arena and time was wasting. The security detail sounded urgent as they explained the details of this nights extravaganza. I approached the main doorman,
"Sir. What's going on here?"
"Well, it was peaceful, really calm, ya know what I mean?"
"Uh huh."
"Well then they came."
"They?"
"Yeah, they call themselves the Linkin Park Band. A bunch of punks if ya ask me. Well, like I says, it was quite, now look at the place. I need you to do your thing, out there. Try and calm these hoodlums down!"

I wanted to help but I needed to know more.
"Just exactly how many hoodlums are we talking about, sir?"
"Heck, I don't know. Maybe twenty or thirty thousand."
"Hmmm, that is a lot of hoodlum activity. Ok sir, I'll get on it right away."

As I began to walk away the man spoke again,
"Hey, there's one more thing."
"Yes."
"Well, there may be some problems."
"Problems?"
"Yeah, you know. Wild child type guys. Can you handle it?"
"Yes sir. I wear a kilt."

With that I turned and walked to the corner to prepare for the evening onslaught. It started slowly, just a punk or two meandering by. Then it came, like a flood from a dam that burst. I was deluged in a sea of human punkitude. They were behaving though, I guess the Kilt was having it's way with the crowd. Most seemed to be in a trance as they dropped their bills into my holding box. The pipes were calming the masses. Just another day for the kilted warrior.

Then without warning, a pickup truck of belligerent miscreants pulled up in front of my post.

"Hey man! You're really good at blowing that thing..."

They then began to send volley after volley of the most foul verbiage known to man. I remained calm, after all I had the cure right on my shoulder. I don't need to take this crap! As quick as a flash I hoisted Llieam and blew life into his waiting void. Instantly, the foul tirade that filled the air was replaced with the gentle tones of the highlands. Unfortunately, these were no ordinary reprobates. They were the spawn of Satan. The Devil, it seems, is agitated by the Ceol Mor (Bagpipes) and sets all his minions in motion to extinguish their tones.

In a final futile attempt to silence my efforts these demons laid on the horn and offered their own foul music. It was blaring and discordant. But in the end, they fell as all before them have. In broken humility, the beaten hoods meekly departed at the turning green of the light. A wry smile crossed my lips, with my right hand I formed a hand gun and mocked them by shooting in the air at them.

"That's right! Now you know the power of the pipe. Don't mess with the kilt man!"