by Christopher Schlegel

Chapter 1

Joe Smith was working late when he heard someone enter the front door of the store.
He was the sole employee of the Withers Music store on the outskirts of the town of Pinhill. He was primarily the store’s instrument repairman, but as this was a small store in a small town, he found himself doing a lot of everything. Which, of course, included being a salesman when the owner, Mr. Withers, wasn’t present.

The store was officially closed at five p.m., but being a Friday night the front door was left open for any of the local musicians that might stop by on the way to a gig needing strings or cables at the last minute. One of these locals had just called him to see if he was coming down to the Puddle, a downtown hot spot, when he finished for the day. He was, in fact, planning on going there so he agreed to bring a set of guitar strings, which he had already put in his back pocket. The Puddle wasn’t actually much more than one of a half dozen, small, run-down-hole-in-the-wall bars in the area. But, it was a place to go and something to do after a long week of work.

Joe had stayed late to finish creating a dozen heavy duty fifty foot cables for his boss, Mr. Withers, the owner of the store. So, this late arrival was not going to make it easier for Joe to get out of the store and out on the town. However, Mr. Withers would be running an outdoor festival at the local fairgrounds on Saturday morning and, because Joe was a conscientious employee, the late arrivals would be taken care of and the cables would be ready and waiting.

Joe put down the soldering gun that he was using to attach quarter inch ends to the cables and walked out to see who had come in the store.

It was a large man in a cowboy hat, a dusty, cracked black leather jacket and black jeans and boots to match. Joe had never seen him before, but since he had only lived in Pinhill a little less than a year, he was always meeting musicians for the first time that had lived in ‘this here part of the country fer-ever’.

“Help you with something?”, Joe asked.
“Sure can. Yer name Joe?”, replied, then asked the stranger.
“That’s right. I’m the repair guy. You want something fixed?”
“Yeah, fixed. That’s a damn good word fer it.”
“Well, where is it?”
“Standin’ right here in fronta me.”

Joe thought ‘What the hell is this guy talking about’, but before he could ask it the stranger continued.
“You need to mind yer own bizness, boy. Or you might find yerself with no bizness to mind.”
This time Joe got it out, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t you play that shit with me. You need to stay away from my woman.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This was true.
“Don’t git me pissed, boy. I knows you been after my woman and I’m here to give you one fair chance at droppin’ it . . . or else.”
“Look, buddy, I just got divorced and moved here less than a year ago. Since, I moved here I haven’t been after your woman or any woman.” This was also true.
“That ain’t the way I been hearin’ it. My girl says that you been followin’ her ’round askin’ her fer dates and other highly improper suggestions. Says she tells you ‘No’, but you just won’t stop. And I’m here to make sure that you follow her advice once and fer good.”
“Well, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not your girlfriend’s Romeo.”
“Oh, yer the guy alright. She just told me tonight it was the new guy down at the music shop. And that’s you.” The stranger pointed at Joe.
“Then your girlfriend is lying to you.”
“My woman don’t lie to me, boy!”
“Look, I don’t need this shit. I’ve told you the truth, I don’t know or have anything to do with your girlfriend. The store is already supposed to be closed. So, if you’re not going to buy anything, please leave. I’ve got work to do.”

With that Joe turned and walked back to his repair room in the rear of the store. The stranger followed him.
“I ain’t through talkin’ to you, boy,” the stranger grumbled menacingly. Joe could here boots advancing towards his room.

Once back at his workbench, Joe quickly put a tape into the cheap player sitting on a corner of the bench and pushed record. If this guy was going to harass him, he would want to be able to prove it. He muttered to himself, “This idiot is unbelievable”. Then, he picked up the soldering gun from it’s stand to resume work on the cable ends. The stranger walked in the room saw what Joe was doing and unplugged the gun.

“Now, listen to me,” the stranger said, “This ain’t no damn joke. Just today, I got it out of her that it was you messin’ with her. So, I came down here to see that you stop. And I aim to make that firmly understood.”
“For the last time,” Joe began quietly and finished yelling, “I am not messing around with your woman! I don’t even know who the hell she is!”

Joe reached over to plug the gun back in and the stranger grabbed his arm with one hand and applied a half nelson grip with his other hand and arm.

“If yer not gonna take this seriously, then, I’m gonna have to make the situation clearer to you,” the stranger said as he pushed Joe’s head forward and worked on damaging his shoulder and collarbone. As he spoke he emphasized his words with Joe’s neck and head, “Yer . . gonna . . . stop . . . messin’ . . . with . . . my . . . girl . . . or . . . I’m . . . gonna . . . kill . . . you . . . Do you got that?! Leave’r be or I’ll break yer gawd-damn neck!” With that, the stranger punched him in the back with his free hand.

Joe was beginning to realize this guy was not interested in the truth. And worse, his disinterest in truth might go as far as serious bodily injury. The stranger was obviously a maniac, if not also a dangerous maniac. Joe grabbed for the soldering gun with his free hand. It was unplugged, but he knew it was still scorching hot.

He swung it between his legs and directly behind him into the stranger’s crotch. There was enough force in the blow to break through the worn denim of the stranger’s jeans and enough heat in the gun to cause considerable discomfort in the stranger’s crotch.

“Gawd-Damn!!”, he yelled as he loosened his grip on Joe and stumbled backwards. He grabbed and looked at his faintly smoking crotch. Joe looked for something on his bench with which to arm himself.

The stranger recovered quickly and came at Joe yelling, “Yer dead, you sumbitch!”

Joe took the Les Paul leaning up against the bench by the neck and swung it at his head.

It connected full force.

There was a dull crack of bone, a splatter of blood on the wall and finally the heavy thump of the stranger’s limp body hitting the floor.

Joe stepped over the stranger and out of the room, stopped at the doorway and raised the guitar again in preparation for the next attack. It didn’t come, the man was obviously unconscious. A Les Paul is a heavy, solid piece of machinery.

“Damn”, Joe muttered as he looked down at his assailant. He took the guitar with him to the phone and called the police.