How to transport twenty-eight tons of sheep stomachs 1200 miles (or was it kilometers) without them spoiling?
Meanwhile, Willy Nilly was brooding in his cottage outside the village. In the pasture below his window the shcowps were grazing noisily. Filling their already fat bellies with the clover and Venutian coffee plants that grew there.
Willy had always hated the shcowps, ever since Izzy started raising them on the farm next to his cottage. Their ugliness alone was sufficient reason for anyone to hate them, but it was their call that struck a dissonant chord within him. That mixture of "Baa" and "Moo" that they bleated out day and night. Forty years as a conductor should have made him used to "Boos" by now, but they only served to remind him of this failures in that endeavor.
But conducting wasn't his only failure. He looked at the long shelf full of Operas and other compositions he had written:"The Barber of Albany", "Love for Three Pomegranates", "The Pearl Hunters", "Romeo and Cloe", "Daphnis et Juliet", "Danny Giovanni", and so many others. He had thought he had a hit with "The Firefish", and had staked his fortune on it. He rented the largest hall he could afford. He had contacted an agent to secure the biggest vocal talent in the industry.
And they came, too, but at a cost. There they were on stage, his big opera with the biggest talent. He could still see them in his mind: Johnny Cash, Joan Baez, Jimmy Dean, Janis Joplin. And perhaps his most expensive failure: Bob Dylan in the lead role. It failed the first night. It only added insult to injury that Bob had made a success singing, of all things, the sopranos aria! He still cringed whenever he heard it" How does it feeeeeel, to be on your oooown?".
"Terrible, just terrible" he said, answering his own nightmares.
He had even failed at poisoning the shcowps. He had fed them toxic Venutian coffee plants in the hopes of killing them. The result was that they now gave ready-made lattes, which Izzy marketed as shcowpaccino. Izzy's fortune had trebled, and his herd along with it. Now there were more shcowps making more noise, particularly since the Venutian coffee plants made them hallucinate, and they became more vocal booing at shcowps, real or imagined, dancing in the woods. To make matters even worse, the caffeine in the Venutian coffee plants kept them up all night, so the booing went on 'round the clock, much to Willy's dismay. he couldn't find a minim's rest.
He had failed at suicide, too. He had tried to through himself from the clef, only to land safely in tall bushes that grew at the bass. His only injury was to his crotchet, which was pierced by his staff. This threw him off balance and left him with a quaver to his step. Actually, he had improved, as it was only a semiquaver now.
His homecoming hadn't been pleasant, either, as the shcowps booed loudly at his arrival. Now he had had his fill. He would get back at Izzy, and at all those who had done him wrong. He would have his revenge!
"Revenge!", He thought again, and again. He liked the sound of that word. "That's it!" He shouted. "I'll write a Revenge Aria!"
"It'll be the masterpiece of my latest work", he spoke aloud, though only the shcowps could hear him. Thus he set out to write "The King of the Nights Revenge", for his latest opera "The magic trombone". Outside, the booing of the shcowps foreshadowed his success.
Speaking for foreshadowing, beyond the pasture four shadows moved in the fading night....
Quod scripsi, scripsi.