The accordion was my thing. I carried it everywhere I went, and people would often ask me questions about it, like 'Why are you carrying that around, this is a funeral?' And, 'If you're going to carry it with you all the time, how about learning to play something other than the Hokey Cokey?'
But I didn't listen because the accordion was what made me an individual. 'Here comes Accordion Pete,' people would say as they saw me coming. My name isn't Pete but I didn't want to correct them.
One night I was walking down a dark side street with my accordion when a person of ill repute lurched out from the shadows.
'Hands up,' he said, pointing a gun at me.
'Can't,' I replied. 'I'm carrying this accordion.'
With that he shot me and ran away. I braced myself for the searing pain which never came, and I looked down and saw that the bullet had lodged in my accordion, rendering the bellows inoperable. The accordion had saved my life. But what kind of life is it, with no accordion?