take a thrash song and make it better
Ethan was pretty sure he'd never used a razor for this, before. The tiny thing was unwieldy, all of a sudden, unfamiliar, and he was sure that by the time he was done, his thumb and forefinger would be covered with tiny cuts. His hard-won prize wouldn't be as enjoyable, with his fingers covered in bandaids. But he didn't care.
He'd asked the old black man behind the counter for the Gibson Les Paul, without a moment's hesitation. Seeing the circles under his eyes, the threadbare plaid shirt hanging from his shoulders, the guy had tried to talk him into an acoustic. Something cheaper. But Ethan had pawned one of the few things of value he'd had left - the remnants of a dime bag - a few blocks down, and he wasn't about to be cowed.
Only once he'd checked into the cheap strip motel down the road that smelled like week-old hookers, nicotine stains, cheap rum and vomit, did Ethan stop to inspect his new prize.
The front of the Les Paul was gleaming, sure. But someone had emblazoned the back with an old, peeling, stubborn Grateful Dead sticker.
"What. The F***," he'd groused. There was no way he could shred his way to greatness if someone else's lame hippy rock mojo was hanging around his guitar. And there was only one thing to do about it.
THe soap made his hands slippery as he greased up the back of the guitar, and it was hard to get hold of the razor. A few remnants of powder dusted over the sticker as he made his first few unsuccessful swipes. Undeterred, he'd grabbed a can of Pabst out of his backpack, cracked it open, and took a swig before setting to work again.
With every stubborn scrape of the razor, Ethan thought about what he'd do with his clean slate. He'd pushed Seth over the balcony into the family pool, yeah, and that made him look like a total douchebag - but what his parents didn't know was that their perfect baby boy was hustling stolen VCRs out of the back of his Volkswagen. He couldn't wait for the day they found out their clean-cut, sweet-talking Seth was a hustler, and the long-haired, foul-mouthed baby of the family was really the prodigal son. Literally. He couldn't wait. Couldn't stand to stay in the house and get told to get a job. He knew he was meant for better than hawking hardware at the Tomahawk Aubuchon's. It wasn't just a dream - he could see it, smell the smoke from the fog machines, hear the roar of the crowd, feel the adrenaline in his veins and the sweat on his brow.
Every shred of decal that littered his lap and the cheap hotel bedspread made him even more certain, and once it was clean, he hoisted the Les Paul up into his lap, tuned the strings carefully, and began to play.
The strings caught on the tiny cuts in his fingers, and as he baptized the guitar in blood, Ethan left his life in Tomahawk behind. He signed a twanging, amp-less contract with the gods of metal and hair.
And he signed it "Pickles".