welcome to cheapdreheadphones dot com (9)

Mayne walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. He grabbed his cocaine and poured a decent-sized mound on the back of his hand that wasn't bleeding and snorted. Afterward he licked residue off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He took a deep drag and listened to his surroundings.
The neighbor was still pounding. The ashtray was an overflowing mountain of dead butts so Mayne placed the cigarette on the edge of the night table. He had tried to avoid a confrontation, but the shithead next door wouldn't let it lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. "OKAY, HOME########, WANNA PLAY GAMES?"
He unloaded three shots toward the already hole-ridden wall. The pounding stopped instantly. Again he smiled. He aimed the pistol at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blasted the shiny sphere. He aimed at his TV and blew it to kingdom come. One bullet left. He held the silver-plated pistol in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; all it would take was one quick squeeze of the trigger. The idea appealed to him. Maybe he'd get it right in his next life. Slowly, eyes closed, he raised the pistol. The trigger teased his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against his temple. Readying himself, he reopened his eyes. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a point in his life when these musical embodiments were holy. The dedication and years of practicing were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But all of that changed with one song. Now these guitars were reminders that Mayne could never regain his innocence.
"Can't I ########in?die with some dignity?" he wondered as rage consumed him.
He couldn't even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasn't enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door. He walked over to the balcony's edge. Below, a small crowd had gathered around his ruined luxury car.
He stared at the ?7, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called a Sunburst. Reds new jeans, oranges, and yellows swirled in the wooden body. This one had gold trim as well as golden pickups. The Sunburst was his preference of all guitars. He had another two dozen in storage but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to a recording contract. It was how he'd rewarded himself for having "made it." This was also the guitar he'd written the music to "Without You" on. He approached it with caution and respect and gently picked it up. He sat down on the floor Indian style. Deep down, he was glad he hadn't destroyed this ax. His picking hand hurt badly, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped off his hand and dripped down the guitar's body. Enthralled, Mayne watched it run. No matter how intoxicated he was, his fingers never betrayed him welcome to cheapdreheadphones dot com (8), and this particular guitar always responded to his call. He began picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar run shook him up and he couldn't continue. In a vague way, it reminded him of a part in "Without You." After taking a deep breath, Mayne partially regained his composure. Multimillionaires like Mayne Mann aren't supposed to cry. They're beyond tears or at least that's what society wants to believe. Mayne Mann was just Stephen Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who could run his nimble fingers along a piece of stringed wood. He began to strum one of his favorite riffs, Thin Li's "Don't Believe a Word." Even though the guitar wasn't amplified, he could hear it as if it was. He let the last note ring out as he stopped and reflected. He used to love the feel of this instrument in his hands. He used to love making the strings come to life. He used to love just holding this guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that he'd also loved the way Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose off the floor and tossed the guitar aside. It landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG.