It’s 1949, and 24-year-old B.B. King, née Riley B. King, is playing a nightclub in Twist, Arkansas, then, as it is now, an unincorporated community 40 miles over the Arkansas state line from Memphis. The nightclub doesn’t have much by way of an HVAC system, so as a way to keep the place warm, there’s a bucket of kerosene and rags burning in the corner. Two men — their names lost to history — have a quarrel that escalates until one of them takes a tumble into that open kerosene bucket, spilling its contents across the wooden floor and turning the nightclub into a giant wooden bomb. This is the start of B.B. King’s origin story. His radioactive spider. His bath in the river Styx.