The Quantum Encore Monologue

The Quantum Encore  

A monologue by Maharaja Richie the Rooster  hatched at the edge of the Anti-Delta when feeling the blues deeply beneath a flickering lamppost shaped like a flamingo bassoon! This was witnessed and recorded on a quadraphone by an elusive bear, face hidden behind shades with a bass in his claws.

So you want the Encore, do you?  

The one that plays when no one claps?  

When the fog’s too thick for applause,  

And the noodles are tangled in regret?

I’ve seen it. Heard it.  

Played it once on my resonator,  

A six-stringed beast tuned to heartbreak and Old Fashioneds.  

PI Barry Noir went white.  

Madame Fuchsia danced with a spoon.

They say I crow too loud for paradox.  

But I was born in the Anti-Delta,  

Where the blues don’t mourn, they merely misremember.  

Where rivers run backward  

And harmonicas bleed Penderyn whisky.

My resonator?  

Forged from the brass of forgotten train whistles.  

It hums in frequencies only failed lovers hear.  

I strum it sideways,  

Like a question that refuses to be answered.

The Quantum Encore!  

It’s not a song. It’s a betrayal.  

It plays only when the stage is empty  

And the audience has turned into fog.

I once played it for a bowl of entangled noodles.  

They twitched. They wept.  

They whispered the Maharaja Conjecture  

In a dialect only roosters understand.

You want truth?  

You want performance?  

You want the tabla to beat against your chest  

Like a second heart?

Then don’t clap.  

Don’t listen.  

Just vanish.

And maybe, oh just maybe…  

Maybe perhaps,  

the Encore will play you.

Richie's Resonator 

It was forged from brass train whistles from the legendary Croissant Train and from heartbreak.

It is standing proud on a fractal stage that echoes the Anti-Delta blues. 

The rooster carving at the heart of the resonator is no mere ornament, it’s Richie’s crest, his paradoxical plume, strutting sideways through time.

The stage geometry spirals like tabla beats caught in a feedback loop, each arch a recursive echo of forgotten gigs and quantum encores.

The sepia tones wrap it all in noir mysticism, as if the harmonica solos were dipped in Penderyn whisky from 1920, many years before the distillery opened and played to a vanished crowd.

The Hatstand Hootenanny

PI Barry Noir, trench-coated and furrow-browed, was leaning into Richie’s rooster-clad resonator, magnifying glass in hand, searching for clues about the elusive Hatstand Hootenanny. 

The fog coiled around the fractal stage like a tabla beat caught in a feedback loop. 

Aah wondered Barry, every rooster feather, every fret marker, every brass echo might be a cipher.

The Hatstand Hootenanny, after all, is no ordinary gig. It’s a mythic jam whispered about in sepia-toned gig posters and whisky-laced harmonica solos. Some say it only happens when the hatstand spins counter clockwise. Others claim it’s a sonic ritual that rewrites memory. Some even say it only happens when jam turns to jelly laced in quadruple cream!!

Barry Noir’s lenses refract paradox. He’s not just looking—he’s listening with his eyes. Somewhere in the rooster’s plume or the resonator’s curve must lie the key to the encore that plays when no one claps.