Rubbery moist lips wrapped around a harmonica. The wildebeast, sitting hunched on a stool in some downtrodden slum deep in the worst end of the city projects, blew a few sharp blunt notes.

No, that didn't sound right, he thought, he searched a few more spaces to see if he could find the pitch he was looking for.

Ah. There we go. A flat. Like the wheels of his tired life.

"I be sayin', I be singin', there ain't no place for a wilduh-beast in these here parts," he trumpeted a few more dissonant notes and caused a teenager to halt his bike pedaling to see this, "Where no beast can find himself a beauty, where no man can poach him, where there ain't no grass to be-a-chewin'," his harmonica sang tunelessly, "But ain't that a life not worth livin'?"

"You are terrible at singing the blues, Gus," the boy said snidely, his foot still taut on his bike pedals. The wildebeast tilted his brow, and let his sunglasses slide down his snout, "You should try something less depressing, like jazz, or maybe hip hop!"

Gus the wildebeast merely harumphed, and tooted a few more notes defiantly, "I play the blues, 'cause I gots them blues."

"Go back to Africa! You will be happier there, and you will not have to put up with segregation against bison! You could live without the crime, the poverty, the street wars, the hunger! You could be a king in your home savanna!"

"Hmm," Gus shuddered slightly, his hairy hide bristling in annoyance, "I ain't going back there. Ain't no way, no-how."

"You would be so happy there!"

Gus glared, sizing the boy up, "But then," he tooted, "I wouldn't get to play the blues."