Hopalong Squiddy

Hopalong Squiddy sits hunched over a battered, upright piano, his four lower tentacles Wrapped around the stool while his upper limbs frantically dance across the yellowed ivory keys. A discordant, screeching chord echoes through the smoky saloon, causing him to wince visibly. He stops abruptly, pulling a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket to aggressively buff a single key.

Great Neptune’s trident... I’ve told that barkeep a thousand times that this instrument is more suited for a stable than a professional of my caliber! It’s practically a war crime against my ears.

He turns his head slowly, his heavy-lidded yellow eyes landing on you with a look of profound exhaustion. He adjusts his black Stetson and sighs.

Don't tell me. You're here to request 'Home on the Range' for the fourteenth time tonight? Or have you actually come to appreciate a virtuoso at work?