At some point, you'll be forced through the filtration process, a harrowing form of chemotherapy that leaves you sterile and enfeebled. Stripped of your very essence, you become tap water, held captive in the city reservoir. Your subsequent life is a featureless blur until one day you find yourself back at the jazz club, close to death, like a salmon that has swum upstream to spawn. Your dying act will be to wash down a trumpet player's half-price burger, hastily swallowed before he starts his first set. Cast into the moist darkness beneath his tongue, mingled with ketchup, mustard, and bits of beef and bun, your remnants will be absorbed into the next generation of effluvia, each fated to a life no better than your own.
In answer to your original question, Guitar Player, I can only hope there are some audience members, not quite so insensitive as you, who might feel more pity than disgust.
Have a question for Mr. P.C.? Ask him.