The clock on the wall of Preverb Customs– Lightbulb and Tommy had built it out of an old BC Rich Warlock- read three minutes past three.
3 O’Clock was one of Tommy’s old designated smoke breaks but he had quit three days ago. He had already sweated through his old 2:15, 2:30, and 2:45 smoke breaks without succumbing.
Felt like he was gonna start scratching his arms or some junkie shit.
The back door of the shop creaked open and Tommy shuddered like he was seeing the gruesomely masked villain in a horror movie for the first time.
It was Lightbulb, of course it was Lightbulb, they shared the custom guitar shop, made a damn good living doing it.
Nicotine withdrawal was a bitch.
Lightbulb looked down at the forest green desk. “Are those fingernails?”
Tommy looked down. They were. His.
“Yeah. I never should have quit smoking.”
Tommy realized that his pinkie finger was bleeding slightly from where he had torn off the nail with his teeth.
Lightbulb snorted. “Two packs a day? You should have quit 15 years ago.”
“I had added stress today.”
“Calibrating that short-scale hollow for Danitra?”
Tommy purposely stepped toward Lightbulb so he could see the deep furrows in Tommy’s forehead.
“I’m the Tony Hawk of calibration. Einstein. Mozart. Seymour Duncan himself would be proud to hear his pickups in that guitar.”
“You’re pretty good. Relax. What stressed you?”
“Huge dude walked in here. Said how ya doin? right, like average day, no big deal, how ya doin, then immediately proceeds to ask me to build him a guitar in the shape of a swastika.”
Lightbulb shook his head. “Where’s the work order?”
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