The man Chili John calls Piper doesn’t have a pipe, but a what are they called? Panflute. The chimpfall is fresh. The whole town has come out to watch.
“This better be worth our time,” grumbles the chief.
“What?” says Chili John.
Piper’s dancing a slow, shuffling dance now. He’s moving the panflute; it doesn’t seem to make any sound. There is something shining just over his left shoulder, though.
The crowd leans forward, trying to see. Piper moves. The glimmer moves. The crowd moves.
Chili John, his ears stuffed with rubber plugs, grins to himself. The chimps grin too.