There wasn’t much that he was good at. Come to think of it, he wasn’t good at anything at all. But on a fret-board, his fingers moved like bats out of hell. Six-Stringed madness, he called it.
One dark night, he walked down a darker lane, like the darkest shadow in Erebus. The only visible portion was his left wrist. The modest shine of an expensive gold wrist watch lit the darkness surrounding him.
At a distance, perched on a crimson wall, a crook observed him. He laughed to himself... The laughter was syncopated... Evil and sinister. A flash of a sharp silver blade...
As he walked closer and closer, completely oblivious to... *Wilhelm Scream* the crook sliced his hand and fled with the watch, and vanished into the darkness like an apparition, while he stood there, shell-shocked, staring into the darkness and empty space.
Now he stares at the wall, where his guitar is placed. He stares at his guitar with great despair. Staring & wondering whether someone will lend him A HAND.