> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://musically-novel.ghost.io/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # It's A Lot - URL: https://musically-novel.ghost.io/its-a-lot/ - Published: 2026-08-07T19:30:18.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-02T17:06:01.000Z - Description: Lot in New York City, 2032 - Author: PETER SALTZMAN - Tags: The Tanakh Improvisations, jazz, Sodom, Tanakh, Biblical, Newsletter, #Migrated-1788368492164, #Import 2026-09-02 17:05 > *I continue a modern retelling of the Sodom and Gomorah story. Please see the previous post,* [*God and Abraham Walk into a Bar,*](https://musically-novel.ghost.io/god-and-abraham-walk-into-a-bar/) *for initial setup.* ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/dad653dc-c8db-4e54-869f-0d5c53dbb581_1672x941-jpeg-1.jpg) Two of God’s agents, Josh and Caleb, have been scouring midtown Manhattan on a cold, drizzly night, searching for a few good souls. They’ve had no luck and are about to call it an evening. Then, just south of East 29th Street on Lexington, they spot a familiar-looking doorman coughing as he vapes outside his building. It’s Lot, Abraham’s nephew. They stare up at the mid-rise luxury condo, reading the brushed metal logo to the right of the door: **The Aftermath on Lexington.** Below that, in smaller cursive letters: **What Comes Next Is Yours.** “Lot, what are you doing—” Lot, taking a drag on his vape, looks up, shocked to see God’s men, drops the vape, makes to stomp it out like a cigarette, then remembers it’s not a cigarette. “Shit. I mean, hey guys.” He kneels to pick up the vape. Then bows to the agents, nose to the ground. Josh rolls his eyes at Caleb. “Can you believe this fellow?” Caleb shakes his head. “Arise, Lot. We’re just his agents.” Lot grabs his vape and looks at it bitterly. “Agents, angels, whatever, guys: I’m just here to serve.” He laughs, “And maybe open a few doors.” He coughs, then laughs. The agents don’t laugh. “Anyways, guys, let me shine your shoes, get you a room up here for the night.” He points to the building. “Building’s emptied out since the commies took over. Prime *pet-a-dear* property, or some shit.” Josh laughs, “Pied-à-terre, Lot. A second residence. The city levies a heavy tax on such properties.” “Oh.” Caleb pats him on the back. “No need to procure a room, Lot. We shall spend the night in a little hostel down by Washington Square. It will allow us to explore the neighborhood.” “You don’t want to go there, boys. Filled with deviants, socialists, and Times reporters. Stay here in the penthouse. Place is always empty. My daughters are living downstairs. Rent-free. They can fix you a nice warm meal on this cold rainy night.” Caleb looks at Josh. “Do they have any Matzah?” “Uh, sure, there must be something unleavened. Maybe some naan?” Josh says, “Naan is leavened, Lot. Roti or tortilla will do.” “Ah, tortillas they’ll have for sure. Follow me.” Caleb glances at Josh. “Fine.” Lot leads them to the elevator and keys them up to the sixth floor. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/68992f87-1c39-43ab-aaad-fe206c46d237_1672x941-jpeg.jpg) The doors open wide to an enormous, fully furnished space filled with luxury items and art. Wall-to-wall windows look out onto neighboring rooftops with water tanks and fire escapes abutting facades, offering a partial view of the Empire State Building rising above them. Caleb takes it in, unimpressed. “Nobody resides here?” “Not in recent years. This is Ken Griffey’s place. Hall of Fame baseball player. Both the father and the son.” Josh laughs, “Ah, you must mean Kenneth Griffin.” “Huh. Is that the grandson? He in the show too?” “No, Lot, the hedge fund billionaire. He left town to avoid the taxes. Pied-à-terre, et cetera. ” “Huh. Billionaire. Well, anyway, that explains why the joint is capacious. Huge rooms. Guys, make yourselves at home. He insists that we keep the kitchen stocked. Should be tortellini, ramen, or whatever you asked for. I should get back to the station. You know how it is.” Caleb reminds him, “You mentioned your daughters preparing a meal?” “Damn. I forgot. They’re out tonight,” he laughs. “Looking for guys. Slimmings are slimmy, you know.” “Pickings are slim?” “What?” Lot stares. “In any case, we shall manage.” Lot heads back down to the lobby. He steps outside; no one around. He taps his jacket pocket. “Just one.” He heads around the building to the loading dock, climbs the stairs, sits, and stares into the starless night. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/2528633b-eb2b-4f0f-a7fd-4af3bd9f8983_1672x941-jpeg.jpg) He pulls a joint out of his pocket, lights it up, and takes a deep drag. “Damn, that’s good.” He’s about to take another drag when he hears a commotion in front: chanting and yelling from what sounds like a mob. “Shit.” He’s about to throw the joint to the ground, then catches himself. “Not you, little girl.” Instead, he puts it out in his palm. “Ouch!” He shakes his hand. “Whatever.” He pockets the joint as he heads toward the front. There he sees a mob of college-aged kids, some wearing keffiyehs. “Shit. Fuck.” They’re screaming, “Where are they? Where are the Jews?” Lot looks them over and laughs. “Come on, guys, this is a nice neighborhood. Head back to Columbia or wherever.” A tall student in a designer keffiyeh steps forward. “NYU, bitch. We came to party with the agents.” ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/73b6ff05-d05e-42e9-b307-39cf353d6ce3_1698x956-jpeg.jpg) “You said, Jews.” “We meant agents. Most agents are Jews, right?” “Jews? What Jews? They’re gone. All of them left. Except my uncle, and nobody knows where the hell he is.” “What about you?” Lot laughs uneasily. “Me? I’m one of the good Jews. I get along with everyone.” A blonde woman in a keffiyeh steps forward, filming with her phone. “We want to see the agents.” “What makes you think they’re here?” She presses a few buttons on her phone and shows it to Lot: grainy footage of Lot leading Josh and Caleb into the building. “How’d you get this?” The tall keffiyeh guy points to security cameras on the light poles. “You hacked…” “Didn’t have to.” He looks at his friends. “We know people.” Lot looks around nervously. “Do you know them? The agents?” “Do we know them? Of course we know them.” “Biblically?” “Biblically? What do you mean, biblically?” “I mean, have you known, lain with them?” “The fuck?! You think we’re gay.” “Nothing wrong with it.” “True. Just bring them out. We want to get to know them.” “I thought you said you already knew them.” “Not biblically.” “You just said you weren’t gay.” “We’re not.” “Look, guys, just get out of here. Or I’m calling the cops.” Three of them grab Lot. “We’re not leaving until you bring down the agents.” Lot realizes he’s in trouble. “Guys, guys! I got two daughters, about your age. Good-looking girls.” They loosen their grip. An awkward-looking guy steps forward. “Have they been…” He searches for the word. “Known?” “Who knows. Probably.” The awkward guy, looking at the group, says tentatively, “I don’t know. OK with me.” “Great. Let me go find them. They’re staying in the building. Just leave my agents alone.” Lot glances up at the building. Josh and Caleb stand at the sixth-floor balcony railing. Josh appears ready to move. Caleb holds him back. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/3c07d862-1327-4c6d-8f9f-30f39954c8b7_1672x941-jpeg.jpg) The college kids confer, failing to notice the agents above them. Lot pulls away and runs to the door. “Hey!” yells the tall keffiyeh guy, clearly the ringleader. “Get your ass back here, Jew.” “I told you, I’m one of the good—” “You don’t tell us what to do in our town. Fucking suburbanite, you and your weird-ass uncle. This is our town.” A thunderous voice rolls down from above. “You will leave him alone!” No, not that high. It’s Josh. “It’s them!” yells the woman with the phone. Lot runs through the door. As the mob rushes him, he locks it. They bang, scream, and kick. Lot turns toward the elevator behind him. The floor indicator remains fixed on six. He fumbles with the keys to the inner door, then looks back toward the entrance. A burly woman with short, multicolored hair raises a baseball bat. The bat crashes into the glass beside the handle. The tall guy thrusts his arm through the opening and turns the lock. The door swings inward. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/cf94e44c-96eb-480b-8a3c-1e5e28b93c23_1672x941-jpeg.jpg) --- ## The Lot Improvisations I did a few takes on this one. It’s intense, maybe too much for some people. Completely tonal but relentless. The first (take 2 is shorter but completely unrelenting. The second (take 1) is longer but mellower—in places. I make no apologies for what is at times “ugly”: this is how the story, the original and my own retelling, spoke to me. ### Take 2 ### Take 1 To calm your nerves after listening to this chaos, try this track, which I put together before the whole Tanakh Improvisation series began. It was inspired by Claude Debussy’s beautiful *Arabesques*. I call it *Hebrewesque.* Sorry, couldn’t resist. ### Relative Peace [Subscribe](#/portal/signup) --- [![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/7a/4b/7a4bd768-ae74-4aac-8606-8859beafad44/content/images/2026/09/17366b1c-e52c-4c1f-9ecd-0ddf7b1036c6_1254x1254.png)](https://soundcloud.com/saltp/sets/the-tanakh-improvisations?si=44ce6470ab7541958b5be215e6fae5b4&utm%5Fsource=clipboard&utm%5Fmedium=text&utm%5Fcampaign=social%5Fsharing)