The Axe-Wielder | CreepCast

[music] Welcome back to Creekhurst! Today we are going into the tales from the crew subreddit to read a story that's been getting recommended to us a lot over the past couple months, which has been "The Axe Wilder" by Walker Bee Switching Hour. Is that what it is? I think it means "Walker Bee's Witching Hour." Oh, probably. "Walker Bee's." "Walker Bullshit, Witching Hour." "Walker Bee's Witching Hour." I don't know, something like that. And at the very top, "Content Warning!" Because that's what it says at the top here. Yes. "A little supernatural tag. "A little content warning self-harm." So if you're not in the rotten market for some self-harm content, this one is not for you. Yeah, which, if there's one thing I know about our viewers, it's that they like them some self-harm. They love it. They love it. They can't get enough of it. So checking out "Walker Bee's Witching Hour." It seems their real name is Brett H. And that they are a writer or editor, at least according to their reddit account. And they've posted a ton in creep cast and tales from the creeps. And counting it, it looks like they've written one, two, three, four, five stories, four tales from the creeps. And I saw a bunch of people on tales from the creeps recommending these five stories and specifically the axe-wilder. So Brett over here might be an up-and-coming writer. And if so, we need to capitalize on it immediately. We have to be here to read their story and pretend we had something to do with it. So I like whenever we have a, we obviously have a very dedicated audience over on tales from the creeps that are reading stuff. So it's cool whenever they can kind of like be torchbearers and be like, "Hey, by the way, like try to flag down stuff, which is fun." Yeah. So I think it is sweet. And like I said, as we always say at the top, if you are into horror writing, you're just trying to start out. There is a, you know, albeit it's not the largest thing in the world. But still there is an audience of people here who genuinely want to read whatever you got for them. So if you're looking to get into writing, tell us what the creeps might be your place, baby. For all the people listening over on Spotify and Apple Podcasts, thank you so much. Consider getting a good rating. And if you guys like some extra content or just want to support the channel, feel free to sign up for the Patreon. And see some extra goodies there. Isaiah, you want to get into the axe wielder? Let's get into the axe wielder. So I know it's tech supernatural. What's your over and under? Do you think that the axe wielder himself is supernatural? Or do you think it's like, honestly, yes, some other supernatural. Yes, because I hope that it's like that feels like a very cheesy horror film thing that I would enjoy. Kind of like, you remember that maybe 13 ghosts? Yes, with monk. Yeah, it makes me think of like that whenever like all the ghosts in that movie are kind of sweetware. I love, I love and stories are movies when ghosts still have weapons. Where you're like, you came back from the afterlife and get your still going to kill me with the axe. Kind of rules. So I love the early 2000s, like 90s vibes of like a, you know, an axe wielding ghost or something. So I mean, I hope so. What was that a slasher movie where it was like a ghost coal miner with a pickaxe? Was it my bloody valentine? Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. My bloody Valentine. I remember that one. I always thought it was funny, the idea that like, this guy's dead. But he got to keep the pickaxe. Yeah, I don't know. There is a, I mean, it's a very turned out in that one at the end. It was a person murdering people, like a very Scooby-Doo thing just described disguised as a ghost. But still the idea. Is that really how it ends? I'm pretty sure. Doesn't it? It's been, it's been so long since then. But I'm pretty sure or he's possessed or one. But it's something like there's a legend of this ghost miner that kills people. And then I think it's a person who ends up being the killer, I think. Really? Okay. Yeah, it's been so long since I've seen it. But I mean, I guess that tracks too with like, I don't know, Jason. Which I know that's more like I guess zombie or whatever, but still. Well, Jason, but you are right in the first one because in the first one turns out Jason's mom. Right, right. But then in the sequels, yes, Jason has just flat out a supernatural zombie thing that kills people. Do you like the idea of it being a supernatural zombie? Or do you like the idea of it being like, it's just a spirit that's manifesting physically? You know what I mean? Like almost like a spirit that you could touch, but it isn't a zombie. It's not like it's their corpse. It's like a spirit. Well, it depends on how it's done. Typically, the spiritual scarier to me because you can't do anything about it. I feel like, like even in the Friday the 13th movies, it's like you can hypothetically like. He can slow down. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Whereas with like a ghost, it's like, well, I guess you're dead. When I was not a lot, you can do about it. When I was younger, I was so freaked out by 13 ghosts and like all like the weird shit. Even though it's like, because the whole thing was like in that movie, they had to, they had like trapped them in like, like a ritual sealed glass cases or something. Yeah. Because there would be a display in this guy's house. It's super stupid, but it's a lot of fun. But I really like the idea of it just like visually. It's like a thing that can teleport, move around, do whatever. But then it's still just like, by the way, I'm still going to fucking strangle you with these chains. And you're like, okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. If it's more insulting than anything, it's like, well, I mean, that's a little overkill. You are a ghost, but that's why I guess. I like how, yeah. I like someone dying. I like someone's getting ready to die and they're like that combat too. Well, I mean, you are a ghost, but if you must strangle me with chains, then do what you must. Let's dive in and see how what it is. Let's get into it. Let's get into it. All right. Okay. According to some Blues legend, Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in exchange for his guitar prowess. At this point, I'd probably do the same. My name is Johnny Sticks. Well, I was born John Rivers, but I can't really see a crowd going wild for John Rivers. Oh, God, it's God, it's going to be a guitar. It's not even an axe. Instead of a bitch, hold on. We're wrong off the bat. Okay. Admitted that, but at the same time, that's kind of hot. Yeah. No, no, no. I like it. I mean, I'm stoked, but fundamentally I have to completely re-shift my expectations for this thing. I mean, I mean, like a super natural ghost that kills you with a guitar. He's called the axe wielder because he shreds the guitar. That's pretty cool. I'm 26 years young with a birthday a few weeks out, and I'm going to be the next big rock star. At least that's what I told myself as I finished up another open mic at the pit, crowd of 10 people tops occasionally looking up from their drinks at me. The pit was a fitting name for this establishment. A dimly lit dive bar permeated with the perpetual smell of stale beer and cigarettes, cheap drinks, and cheaper clientele. The bar was on, okay, so just real quick, real quick. It's a little thing he just did where he's like stale beer and cigarettes, cheap drinks, and cheaper clientele. We complained so much in stories about people over explaining things or like taking to, like in the Sandman one, where something he describes one thing five different ways. And I've seen comments where people are like, why do they like phrasing and extra adjectives and stuff sometimes, but not others? It's because you have to be short and clever about it. You can't just be like, it felt like this, but it felt like something else too. That little cheap drinks and cheaper clientele is fun. It is world building stuff like that. That's what I wish more writers we read would do stuff like that. Anyway, tells me the creeps. The bar was on one side of the room. A few stools belonged to regulars, while a few tables and makeshift stage comprised the rest of it. The bar wall was adorned with a gaudy mural. An overly muscular Satan and a voluptuous witch taught her broomstick clad only in a hat against a deep red backdrop. Real classy place, but the only bar within walking distance that has open mic Saturdays. The owner Vince claims to know people in the biz. Johnny Sticks everyone. Vince called from the bar, slow clapping with the slight head shake. On slung my guitar, a cheap pawn shop Ibanez from around my neck placed it into its case, pocketing the $3 one of the patrons through in. Vince already had a coarse light bottle cracked open at the end of the bar as I soared up. "Keep your money. This one's on me." He said, waving away the couple bucks in my hand. He was a surly bastard, with a beer belly, short round hair, sideburns, and a pack of day rasp. He gave him a nod and sipped, reflecting on another open mic Saturday. The pit doesn't tend to pull in a ton of people outside its dedicated regulars. An open mic Saturday isn't an exception. It's always the same couple of people stepping up to the mic every week. Me, the shitty excuse for a comedian who prattles about the political climate, and sometimes this pretty early 20s hippie chick playing acoustic folk songs. I usually have time for three, sometimes four songs, and I try to make them count. Cavers of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones, Classics everyone knows. I'm a passable guitar player, nowhere near the grades. But for some reason or another, I always sound like shit at the pit. Tonight was particularly bad. With my misnodes and flat singing, I think the comedian gave a better performance. I slay my cores and gesture to bits. He came over, another beer, bottle of jack, two shot glasses in his hands. I could see the pity in his eyes as he poured. "Fucking guitar." I muttered as we clink glasses and down the whiskey. I needed a new guitar. I had the Ivan as for a few years now. No matter what gear strings picks I used it was sounding worse and worse. Set at the bar for about an hour, drowning my sorrows before I decided to call it. Getting up, the booze went straight to my head. I walked or rather stumbled toward the side door and exited into the alley. The cool night air was welcome after the pit sticky warmth leaned against the dumpster and lit a cigarette with a sigh. Got another one. Came a voice from behind me. I turned around to see a. I'll just say a prick. That's easier. I turned around to see a dirty prick with a stained bud light t-shirt patchy beard missing teeth reaching an arm toward me. Damn it bud. I said flicking another cigarette from the pack and handed it to him. Buds a staple of the pit. He camps in the alley next to the bar, always begging for cigarettes and change. Vince sometimes lets him sleep in the bar on cold nights and when he's in a good mood, spots him in the occasional drink. No one knows Bud's real name. We call him Bud because he always wears that filthy bud light shirt and spins every panhandled scent on the pit's supply of bud, feeling a sense of pity for both of us. I fished the $3 from tonight's performance out of my pocket and handed them over. No hesitation, but ducked into the bar, flashing his gap smile at me. Right as the door closed, I heard Vince shout some expletive. I uneventfully stumbled back to my shit hole building, climbed the stairs to my shit hole apartment, and collapsed on my bed. I didn't even bother putting the guitar where it belonged. Fuck. I grumbled, waking up to the fog of hangover. My whole body ate. I looked at the clock, 10am. I dragged my ass out of bed and lurched towards the shower. The bunch hopped open to an hour. After I indulged in some hair of the dog and made myself look at the very least more presentable than Bud, made my way over. I've been as in hand. I admired a few of their musical wares before, but never had the money for the good ones. Maybe trading this piece of shit in would get me something, at least, probably another piece of shit, but still, something. I noticed two things as I entered the shop. One, the cashier. Tall, gaunt, and pale man with long black hair. He stared at me with a stony expression. This jovial, jolly dude named Dean normally runs the store and has been behind the counter every time I've come in here except today. The other thing I noticed is the guitar hanging behind the counter. I had never seen anything like it. An electric with a body shaped almost like a coffin. The body and fretboard were black. The deepest black I've ever seen. The only non-black parts were the strings and frets. Crimson like blood. Couldn't take my eyes off it. I felt like it was calling to me somehow. It's definitely out of my prize range, but I needed it. I approached the counter and placed the Ibanez down. "How much for that?" pointed at the odd instrument. The cashier looked at me. Smile started to form on its face. We pulled the guitar off the wall and hated it to me. Smile wide into a creepy grin. I was a bit unsettled, but reached out and took it. It was surprisingly light for how sturdy it looked, and the fretboard fit my fingers perfectly. I couldn't describe it, but it just felt right. I gave it a strum, thumb gliding effortlessly over the strings. The cashier looked at me intently. "Trade in this one and it's yours." He said, curling his mouth into that creepy grin once more. My eyes nearly bucked out of my head. "Really? Really?" calmly stated, grabbing the Ibanez off the counter. "Do we have a deal?" I nodded enthusiastically and shook his hand. The script was firm and cold as ice. The guy creeped me out, but the guitar was perfect. He disappeared into the back, my Ibanez in hand. I love that old thing for a while, but with the amount of times it screwed me over at the pit, I shed no tears watching it go. I really do like these kind of stories where it's like, I mean, it's like today's just a peak of destiny. It's like these things of a magical item that suddenly makes you. Would you say this is almost like a monkey's paw kind of thing, right? Yeah, yeah. I would say monkey's paw or like. I mean, it is like the cross-road deal archetype, right? Well, something's going wrong for you, so you make a deal to make it better. And there's also a little. There's a name for it, but I'm losing it right now. The theme of like replacing what was working, what's fine, you know, you could have got somewhere with for like a quick step up to fame. Like it's kind of the the artist story you hear repeated a lot where like someone ditches their old band or band members for the new shiny thing or a manager or producer and like leaves what they had in the dust sort of deal, you know? Yeah, well, I like these stories too because I really. I mean, like the thing too is like, it's definitely going to go to a spot where it's like, he plays it, it's fucking awesome. I always like this idea when you give somebody power and then how do they use that? Like, does it go. Like these things as like not necessarily, I guess, trophy as it might be. I always like seeing where people take the people that make this quote-unquote devil, like deal with the devil. It's always fun, you know, because obviously he's going to go there, he's going to fucking shred. But it's like, where does he go with that? Like, does it go to his head immediately or is there some kind of like what chains are, or what's attached to this deal, you know? Yeah, yeah. The whole, you know, well, monkey's pop. Be careful what you wish for. But also the like, the rise to fame and kind of losing yourself sort of deal. But I like it being done physically through a guitar. It's almost like the shopkeeper was the stand-in for the devil, you know. And obviously he's trading him an item that looks like death. It's jet black with the red frets and stuff like that. It has a very menacing quality to it. But it's attractive. So I do wish I think it's a fun, it's very, it's doing something kind of unique with a very conventional setup. I do wish that it was placed way more in guitar center because guitar center has to be the one of the gates of hell. Every guitar center is a pool in the hell. And I wish it would, it would lean into that more. And while he does this deal, someone is just butchering stairway to heaven on a guitar in the background, an absolute distortion, where are you? We are just purple rain the back. Do we got a deal? Have you ever, have you, have you ever been in a guitar set or any, like a pawn shop? Because I'm not that familiar with instruments. But I imagine there has to be a point where someone's like testing out an instrument or like whatever. Do they ever start singing while they're doing it? No, no. Like a guitar set. I mean, I'm sure there are some people. But the big thing is usually people play the same thought. Like there's kind of an unspoken rule when you go into a place where it's like you're not supposed to play stairway to heaven. You're not like every major popular song. You're usually not supposed to play because it's kind of like a no-no. Also, people go in there and they show off. It's like no shredding. There's a bunch of unspoken rules that are mostly just to be like, dude, just don't be annoying. But I mean, it is what it is. I mean, it's a guitar store, whatever. Yeah. People are gonna, people are gonna, people are gonna shred. People. Yeah. But if they're good, doesn't matter. Well, exactly. That's a thing. It's just if you're butchering. If you're butchering the beginning of sweet child of mine, I legitimately feels like that is that is the opening theme to walking into hell and has to be somebody butchering sweet child of mine. That would be the fuck worst. She's got us and seems to be okay. I immediately plugged the new one in when I got home. I had no clue what brand or model it was. There was nothing signifying a creator or anything on it. Curiosity be damned though. The thing was mine. Said to myself, imagining Vince calling it out at the end of an open mic Saturday, hit pack to the gills with a rowdy and cheering crowd. My guitar case filled with bills. Excuse me. The cutest hippie chick. Do what? The audio of that sound is so horrible. I got every, did you just burp or something? I did. It sounded like you're just like. And who's in the audio, please? Like, who's that trying to click? It was all in my door. Oh my god. Like I ain't ain't in a while and I'm drinking a diet coke quickly and that's that was the mistake. I was like problem. My guitar guitar case filled with bills. The cute, the cute, the cute acoustic hippie chick. Give me a kiss. It's like the perfect set up for that line. That's exactly into the character a little too much. That's him. I'm not going to really like it because I like the story, but now Johnny sticks is like a 500 pound man. And they're like, yeah, she's going to be all over me. It's literally me after I drink a sprite. I feel like I can smell your your like the acidic nature. It's not that bad. It's not that bad. Cute acoustic. I thought that said cute autistic. The cute acoustic hippie chick giving me a kiss on the cheek and then head in the bathroom got me up. I read that. I'm like, I know I'm just not going to just let that one. What do you mean, kid? A girl. Listen, a girl giving you a kiss on the cheek. I mean, ain't going to go to the bathroom. Be like, you're cute. Sorry, I don't kiss on the first day and then just start raw dogging your dick in the bathroom. That's great. It's a fan of But no, I'm just saying like it's a fantasy. It's a fantasy. Well, yeah, I thought Johnny is imagining playing at like a sold out show at a dive bar, you know, he's talking about making money at an open mic. And I thought that Johnny stick is a better man than that. Well, I thought he was a more wholesome chungus kind of guy. I guess he doesn't know. I don't think the story has those. Sorry. It's like, yeah, it's just wholesome chungus. We're going to get given me a kiss and a cheek and then give me anal in the bathroom. No, that's not what you said. That's completely different arrangement. Vince hooking me up with one of his biz contacts, playing on a real stage, tour buses, groupies, a record label suit, hand to being at check, playing in a stadium, more groupies, an unholy feedback squeal snapped me out of my reverie. I adjusted the plug-ins on the amp and guitar, started picking away at the intro to stairway to heaven. Yo, that's a bear trap. I'm telling you, if you want to put it in a guitar center, I would, this would be so much spooky right now. Oh my god. No, he's like, you're a girl sister fucking totally kisses me and she can lick my balls later. Yeah. Dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, dude, - I'm immediately leading into it. (laughing) - Fuck tons of people looking at me. - You had big my pockets. - As far as I'm concerned to you, this is like your, your idea character. - Oh God, Johnny. - Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, - Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. - And I mean, this man is, this is, this is your kind of guy. - This is your guy, absolutely. (laughing) - Maybe it was my hangover. Maybe I just sucked at the song, but it sounded like shit. I started over. What the hell? It sounded worse. Even worse than it did on my, it was at the pit last night. I started over again. Even worse than before. Flat and twangy. When I hit the notes on the high E, the thin red string snapped. - God damn it. - I yelled, put the guitar down, stormed into my kitchen. Grabbed a half inch bottle of rock, got whiskey, took a huge swing. Gosh, this is your character. Briggs and Instruments, like I've got to start drinking. I'm not emotionally strong enough for this. I feel like the urgency, he went to the kitchen, and started to cancel it, like her. So, you know, I'm just walking, a mealy putting in a CD, he's just like, Mississippi Queen. To have to slam down fucking whiskey immediately. This guy's awesome. - Oh, Johnny sticks. - Johnny sticks. What a man. Hold on, let me take a look. ♪ She's got a smile that it seems to me ♪ ♪ Reminds me of childhood memories ♪ ♪ Where everything was as fresh as a bright blue sky ♪ ♪ Now in the end when I see a face ♪ ♪ She takes me away to that special place ♪ ♪ And ever after too long ♪ ♪ I'll probably break down and cry ♪ ♪ Wholes which are mine ♪ ♪ Well, I'll, I'll, I'll sweet love of my own ♪ ♪ Do do do do do do do do ♪ Fuck a tons of chicks grabbing at me. ♪ Do do do do do do do do do ♪ Fuck a tons of people give me money. They're like, "There you go." ♪ Do do do do do do do do do do do do do do ♪ Johnny sticks like I'm a little old, dude. - This is you. - Oh, man. - This is you. - Oh, man. Johnny sticks is a fun name too. - God, it's great. - That's so good. - It's time to talk about something scary. - Your health. - I know I don't go in the doctor as much as I should. If I'm feeling sick, I'll just lie in bed and sleep it away. 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Sutton Bank, prepaid cards, debit flex cards, debit bank, or debit flex cards. Thanks Cash App for this, for sponsoring this episode. [MUSIC PLAYING] My mind raised, the fantasy of Johnny Sticks, the rock stars, snapping with the string. John Rivers, the burnout, pit's worst performer. No. We don't know. John Rivers. No, Johnny, don't say your stuff like that. John Rivers, definitely, yeah. No, no, no. Took another drink, telling myself to calm down. That's just just getting your strengths, a recent whole thing. I'm uttered to myself, pacing around the kitchen, bottling hand, pace, swig, pace, swig. The process repeated for a few minutes. I slugged down the last of my whisky and slammed the bottle on the counter a bit too hard for getting it with glass. God, God, damn it! Broken glass covered the counter. A few pieces embedded in my left hand. It hurt like a son of a bitch. Oh, yes, it needed blood. Whiskey blood, some of the pain. It needed blood, Isaiah! Oh, yeah. Yeah. That's cool. I like that. Yeah, that's hot. I quickly-- this story's so cool. Oh, yeah, just the mechanics of it. I mean, you start playing a random blood on the fucking edge, so to say. What? He'll probably still play "Stairway to Heaven," but-- Oh, yeah. There's a place in the north. Yeah, go ahead. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but the whisky dulled some of the pain. I quickly swept the glass off the counter and the trash, picked the shards out of my hand, and ran it under the faucet for a bit. Most of it wasn't too bad, but there was a nasty cut that wouldn't stop bleeding on my upper palm. I wadded up a paper towel in my left hand and staggered back to the other room. The guitar was where I left it. Line across the couch, strength snapped all hell. I moved it to the side and set back, letting the whisky cloud my thoughts. This was a disaster. Pit last night, Ibbenez, now this. My arms slumped beside me, and the paper towel fell from my left hand. Blood dripped from the cut, drops landing on the fretboard of the guitar. I rolled my eyes inside. Ready for another. God damn it. But then, sighed. What the hell? I'm mouth-looking at the guitar. Neck was clean. No blood to be found. Otter though, set the high e-string to intact. Good as new. Hand be damned. I picked it up and put my fingers to the fretboard. My palm continued to bleed, but the droplets disappeared in an instant. They touched the black body. They were being absorbed. Winsing slightly, I started to stairway to heaven once more. There's a lady who sure-- Yes, I picked the first few notes. Difference was night and day. Sounds-- I think you should keep singing. I think that's good. You should sing in the background. Why? She's buying a stairway. The sounds that came out of the amp. We're the cleanest tones I'd ever heard. No, it's a good to play by Jimmy Page himself. It's sound is heavenly. Immediately. My referee began a name. It's a quote. I said, "Stand it up and give in a mock bow." Johnny, don't do the mock bow, dude. Come on. I'll be ready to stop my dick. He said, "Stand up and drink." Yeah, who's ready to suck some dick tonight? So instead of him. Wait, that came out wrong. Instead of him becoming too big for his head, he becomes cringed and starts doing mock bows. That's tough. That's what keeps him grounded. I fiddled with the knobs on the amp a bit, adding some distortion and darker tone. I'm broken to the best rendition of four picks I'd ever played. Hell yeah. Would you like to sing as I read? No, I'm not going to keep singing over the fucking. I think it works as long as the editor tones it down, like makes you quieter. You have to make me extremely quiet in the neck. Yeah, you just hear it at the background. I think that would add to the background. The sounds coming out of this thing were astonishing. Can I always play like this? And the string baffled me. I could have sworn a broke it. Here it was. For a couple more perfect sounding plays of my usual repertoire, I decided to wind down and call it a night. Pitwood, it now would hit it on Saturday. As the wall machine keeps. Is that my deal again? Sorry. No, no, no. I just. until the end of the paragraph. Because then we're talking about different things. But you can still. It's the artistic. You have to understand the artistic licensing. That's true. Just even the copyright. We're going to get it. I don't. I don't think you're going to get it. Just like Aussie. Just like Aussie. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're too good to sing for too long. I love you! Next morning? The next morning, I immediately went for the guitar again. Plugged in and ready. I plucked the first notes of "Stareway to Heaven". All right, buddy. Expecting that angelic sound once more. And I was greeted with a flat and twingy coffeiny that came out when I first brought the guitar home. Confused, I started the song over to the same results. My mind buzzed with possibilities. Which yesterday's perfect smooth tone, the world version of whiskey goggles? Either way, the thing sounded like shit right now. Then it hit me. The idea was batchet and sane, but I had to try it. Just during repair itself. Better to myself as I went into the kitchen and grabbed an eye from the drawer. The guitar was propped up where I left it, seemingly staring at me, challenging me. The rest of the guitar on my lap as I poked the tip of the knife into my palm, re-opening yesterday's wound. Grunting, I pushed it in until my palm was red with blood. A few drops fell under the fretboard and promptly disappeared, followed by more as I shook my hand and closed it into a fist. Body's black sheen and red strings seem to glow. Is it absorbed the red fluid? Give me kind of sick as if when he was playing, if it fucking shredded up his fingers and then also blood onto the strings. Yeah. Yeah. Maybe it'll get there. I really like. I mean, we were talking about like, you know, a monkey's paw, whatever. But I really like the idea of literally having to bleed to play. You know? Yeah, I mean, I like basically impairing yourself at the stain that you love to be able to play this like amazing instrument. But inevitably it's going to leave you to a place where you'll never be able to play it again. Kind of thing. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, like it. Yeah. It's a cool-- It might get a very literal version. The trap is set. Who's all I have to say? I washed the wound once more and wrapped it up before picking up the guitar once more. It felt light as a feather. And my fingers fit the fretboard like a glove. Slunked the strap around my neck, noodled around with some scales and got to plain. It sounded immaculate. Showtime. He said, grinning from ear to ear, pain in my hand non-existent. Compared to the euphoria I felt. I will say the-- He's got to stop playing stairway to heaven and he's guys stopped talking to himself. Johnny, you're better than that. So it's like-- Hey, hey, throw out a trap. What song do you want to play at some point? I mean, it seems like we're doing-- I mean, I'm legitimately believe that the only thing he knows to play is Warp Higgs and-- There we go. I mean, I would be-- I would be remiss if Sweet Child of Mine does not pop up. I mean, that would be-- that would be a bear trap because you said it earlier when you didn't even know you were setting one. So I'm telling ya. The week leading up to open Mike's Saturday was a blur. Hardly they had to practice. Just a couple drops of blood and I was playing like a virtuoso. Anything I could imagine picked up straight away. I was addicted and bored the track marks. Left arm was nicked and cut to hell. A small price to pay and one I was more than willing to pay for what it bought. Days went by and I've kept going in and out of my arm and I got used to the pain. Welcome to it, even. I played like a god. I was an eating, hardly sleeping, and completely confined to the apartment. The Saturday rolled around. I was all but a zombie. My hair was greasy, complex and pallid. Face patchy was stubble. My arm looked like a Picasso painting. I was delirious, hungry, and smelled something awful. But the pit had a microphone ready for me. So I had to get my shit together. That line's kind of hard. But the pit had a microphone for me. This is just a cool story. I just want to think about what it feels cool. I jumped in the shower for the first time in a week, letting the hot water slough off days of tried sweat and blood. I shoveled down some instant ramen and chased it with a couple cans of course, light. This guy is so you. I'm going to tell you, Johnny, you're going to watch out because that waistline is going to expand rapidly. Careful, buddy. It was just like sodium. Get away from it. Desonnie, my friend Desonnie. Let it be your friend. Lastly, I put on my best van Halen shirt and leather jacket, packed up the guitar and made for the pit. Johnny Stix would be truly reborn. I arrived fashionably late. Right as the comedian was wrapping up his set with a tasteless joke about the conflict in Gaza. Well, the joke was, I can tell you, as it was nearly drowned out by the audience's groans. Same crowd as usual. Ten or so regulars on their stools and the hippie chicks sitting at the table on their phone. Pit was how it always was. Hazy and dim. Smelling of stale beer and cigarettes. Vince raised an eye-brown as I walked in. Back for more, all right? He asked his gravely voice as I commandeered an empty stool. I nodded. Can't be any worse than that chuckle fuck. Jester had said comedian, who was strutting toward the bar from the mic. Can't stand that fucking guy. You have done. Give him hell. Flashed me a smile, rolled a bottle of jack out of nowhere, poured me a shot. "To my new guitar," I said. Winking events before taking the shot. You rolled his eyes and jestered toward the mic. I could tell he expected another train wreck out of me. And if nothing else, the profit from the poset drowning of sorrows. Smiled crept onto my face as the thought of proving that old bastard wrong. I snuck a glance at the hippie chick on the way to the stage. Pretty as usual. Smooth blonde hair. Tight green tank top. Based buried in her phone. A smile wide and at the thought of my music catching her attention. Her eyes fixing on me. I had to make a quick stop for the mic though. Bringing a full guitar case into a bar bathroom, especially graffiti to hell hole like the pits, may seem weird. But no one out there was paying attention. I shut myself in one of the stalls, took my jacket off and opened the case. The guitar had that look to it like it was staring at me. Fishing around in my pants. I found the small pocket knife I made sure to bring flipped out the blade. Set under my breath, the best impression of incess' rasp I could muster before running the blade across my forearm. While other jacket went straight back on, the pit was disgustingly warm, but I could take it to hide my arms. With my instrument satiated, it took my post at the mic. Amp on. Guitar slung. Case open in front of me. I was ready to tear the pit up. I took in my audience. Not a soul looking at me. Just shooting the shit, drinking. The comedian had what looked like a long island in front of him. It was the appin' at a pair of overly-tanned older girls. The hippie chick continued to stare intently into her phone. Vince took a shot with this burly-biker-looking guy. People laughed, conversed, at a good old time. They didn't even spare me a glance. That is, until I started to play. I decided to start out with a bank. And I could see people's heads turns as if the first few notes of Eric Johnson's cliffs of Dover sang from the amp. My fingers flew across the flatboard with a grace the pit had never witnessed before. And my pick struck gold with each note. Halfway through the song, every eye in the bar was on me, savoring the moment, reveling in the beautiful sounds. I continued to play, shredding my way to the end. For once in his life, the comedian had nothing to say. The hibi chick looked up with honor eyes, distracted from her phone. Then stared at me, slack jawed. People began to clap, but I cut them off without missing a beat, jumping right into a rendition of the Almond Brothers, Jessica, with the same precision. I had the pit moving, people bobbing their heads, the two tan ladies off their stools dancing in the cash. Like a tar case was a black hole, sucking in the bills, change, pocket linings of nearly every bar patron. Do you think that this is like, are they under a spell, you think? Uh, I see. Yeah, I could see that. I mean, I think the, the plane of it would be hypnotic to say the least, right? Yeah. Well, that's, that's what I'm wondering because in the, in this year of our Lord, right, with cell phones and whatever, it also rock music being like something that your dad or your grandpa listened to, I think a guy even shredding on like a tar, it, I mean, like this is very much like a rock musicians thing of like, yeah, I'm fucking playing it. Everyone's looking at me. Yeah. Holy shit, not the foot. Like, not to say that it's like totally that, it's not as like amazing or like, you know, not that it's like no one likes it. But I definitely think like I'm wondering if it's casting some kind of spell for people who don't give a shit about rock or something, all of a sudden they're like, whoa, you're awesome, you know, so yeah, I could, I could totally see that. Yeah. I want to take a moment to think today's sponsor, Ridge Wallet. 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So if you're looking to upgrade your wallet and your ride, you can head to the link in the description at Ridge.com and use discount code creepcast to get 10% off your order and get more entries in their biggest sweepstakes ever. So if you want a Lambo, a Ford Bronco, a Hennessy Velociraptor, or a 100 grand in cash, and 10% off of whatever you get from Ridge, you can head to the link in the description at Ridge.com and use discount code creepcast to get in on their offer today. And after your purchase, if you could let them know that we sent you, it would really mean a lot. Thank you to Ridge for sponsoring the show. Their link will be in the description and we are now back to the episode. As Jessica came to a close, I gave my new Founded Myers a smile, winked toward vents, and went into my third and final song of the night, the one that I butchered last week. The room was silent, saved for the slow picking of the intro. We began to crune into the mic, my hands auto-piloting, I could feel every eye in the room on me, feel their love, their appreciation, true to the song, I felt like I was on a stairway to heaven. After what felt like an eternity, lost in Led Zeppelin, I wrapped up, unslinging my guitar, and giving a bow. As high as I felt in that moment, I couldn't help but notice the last few notes, having a flat twang to them. Ah, needs more blood. "Motherfucker, Johnny sticks everyone!" I had said in a breathless tone, the room exploded into a pause, made eye contact with a hippie chick, weaned and chuckled as she turned as red as the wall behind her. I packed up, pocketed the cash from the case and sawn it up to the bar, more swaggered in my step than last week. Vents, per usual, had my chords ready. "How the fuck do you do that kid?" Yes, disbelief in his voice. "Thold you, I needed a new guitar and I got one." I replied, smirking, took a sip of my beer, "Well, come back next week, do it again, pack the place full. Maybe I can get some, you know, friends in here." Vents crammed and I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes, and decided to parry. "Friends, huh?" "Don't bullshit me, Vents, give me a deal, play like that again, pack the bar, and I'll suck you cock if I have to." "No, it's okay, Vents, I'm okay." "Now seriously, I'll kiss your cheek, we'll go to the bathroom, I'll suck your cock raw." "Nice, you said you wanted that, Johnny, don't be a hypocrite, I didn't say that to anyone, I fantasized it was in my apartment, Vents, get out of my head, get out of my head, Vents, you did the fantasy." "Yeah, Vents is the supernatural one, you can see his thoughts, yeah." "You ever see 13 Ghosts?" "That's not even me, that's the people reading the story right now, have you know that?" One of them keeps burping from Diet Coke. "Good enough for me." "Slaped a couple of the bills on the bar." "Round for the bar!" I'm bored, voice full of raw confidence. The next star was the best of my life. Drinks flowing, all the compliments a man could ask for, the hippy chicks number on a napkin. "Life was good. For long I was stumbling out the side door once more, case in hand. Before I could even ask, beat old bud to the punch with the 20 in the cigarette. Same as last week, he ducked into the pit and the last thing I heard was Vents swearing. Whistled as I walked back to my shit hole building, had some extra pet of my staff climbing the stairs to my shit hole apartment. Gently placed the guitar in its stand, gave it a kiss before collapsing onto my bed. From the moment I woke up, it was go time. Whether or not I believe Vents about the friends, I had the pits undivided attention and wasn't about to let it go. Picked up the guitar and nude a little bit before carving another gash in my arm. This point I could barely feel the cuts, only the elation of what they brought. A strum to begin to contemplate my set list for the next open mic Saturday. You know, something else I appreciate about the story is it's very well paced. You can tell from the beginning where it kind of wants to go with like, oh, this guitar's bad. I want a different one. And then this guitar like gives him this power, but it costs blood. So you can kind of see that direction and it immediately moves from like the setup to a very quick interlude to him having the guitar to him playing and now the rise to fame, totally small town fame. And the pacing of it's very well. And I almost feel like if this were a lesser written story, I feel like details like this would be the kind of thing me and you would clown on like, like, you know, not necessarily the guitar blood part because that's cool. But say there was like a different instrument based thing and we're like, yeah, we get it you're good. You don't have to spend so much time explaining. But because it is such a good job with like the tonation of wrapping you into it and making it feel like you're there. It really feels enjoyable rather than like filling the air, you know? Yeah. Well, I mean, so far, I think that it hasn't also hid. It's like tone. I think sometimes it just feels drawing or we're reading these sometimes and it just feels like you are prepped in yourself and you're buying into the idea of like the theme or flavor of a story. And then when it switches suddenly, you're kind of like, what? Or like it feels this just kind of, I mean, like this to me is fun. And this is up my alley because this is like a B horror film or like a tales from the crypt episode. Yeah. Is how I'm reading it. So it's just, it's can't be. It's fun. I mean, I'm enjoying it so far. I think it's cool. Yeah. Yeah. And not ironically enjoying it like we have to do sometimes now. As fun and crowd pleasing as last night's tracks were, I couldn't repeat them to or three in the case of stairway to heaven weeks in a row. I need three tracks that would count. My mind immediately went to Aussie Osborne, maybe crazy train and they'll get the crowd moving and they fit in tribute to the Prince of Darkness. Free bird was another that immediately came to mind as I'd always wished I could play it, but can never nail the thing. I just needed to think of one more. An encore after knocking their socks off with free bird. If I have no further information, if it is a sweet child of mine, I'm going to lose my mind. Yeah. I mean, I cannot think of another song. I'm going to be appalled if it's not, if it's not that crazy train and free bird are like excellent party, pleaser, you know, loud bar socks stuff and so sweet child of mine. So who knows. The week leading up was another blur of blood sweat and more blood counted down the days. mattered to me anymore outside of plane and being in tip-top shape for the pit. Another week of hardly eating. The bulk of my nutrition, consisting of whiskey, beer, and cigarettes. Like I was like, I'm gonna be in tip-top shape and he just gets shrunk. That's what you have to do to get in shape, man. Come on! Another week without leaving my apartment, the only light being my dimming living room bulb and the little sunlight led in through my blinds. Another week with little to no human contact. I did shoot the hippie chicken text though. Pit on Saturday. I'm gonna tear it up again. Ah. Okay, you know, I did it. I didn't know what the forward-slash-in-back-slash-wink would be, but you're going, ah, it's the perfect. It's gotta be exactly what it was. Yeah. Yeah, bring some flowers and some peacetimes this time, babe. You're gonna be fucking, you're gonna be so fucking excited. There was the matter to guitar. While still sounding as immaculate as ever, I noticed it was acting faulty. The sound was sliding from sweet sour after a few songs, like the effect was wearing off early. Last year, he needs more blood every time. There we go. Last week, I'd cut myself once or twice, and the thing would play like heaven for an entire day. Now, I'd have to give it a bloody re-up every few songs. I left arm like terrible. I'd begun cutting it under my right arm as well. I felt whosiness setting in throughout the days. This was not sustainable. When Friday came around, I was once again a greasy, bloody mess. I thought it entered my mind a few times over the course of the week, and it set in my weary brain as I lay down for bed. The guitar was training me. I played the pit with it one more time in stash-in. Use the money for a legit new guitar. Learned my way up from the bottom again. Practice harder. Eliminate the need for the cough and shaped instrument as gorgeous as it sounded. Or, I could just keep playing the current guitar, wild the pit, and then wild the world. I drifted off to sleep after deciding to make that decision tomorrow night. The ding of my phone woke me up. Saturday morning, mere hours until Johnny Sticks rocked the pit again. Another occasion, I soon realized, is I groggly checked my notifications. The one text year I get for my mom. "Happy birthday, John! Miss you. How are you soon? Mommy." The whirlwind of the last couple weeks, I completely forgot about my 27th birthday. Raro, I grown estranged from my mom in the last several years, getting my own place and getting mixed up in music, or rather the skivier parts of the culture. She still held out hope that I'd be successful and come back to her, though. And sent me the same message every year on my birthday. Even with a call soon and every message, I never did actually call. But the thoughts of my incoming success possessed my fingers to tap out a message. "Miss you too. Playing in Pitbar tonight. John." Showtime in a few hours. It was time to return to the land of the living. Just like the previous week, I choked down some instruments to ramen and a few beers to go long, steamy shower. I could almost pass for a functional person, gone to pale, but alive. I ran a brush through my tangled mop of hair, quickly dressed in fated jeans, and a black Sabbath tea, and went to pack up my axe. The guitar. Gosh, I forgot the stories called the axe wilderness. Oh, it's so cool. The guitar had this aura about it, like it was beckoning to me. I picked it up, planted a kiss on its deep, dark body, and gently put it in the case. Cheers to turning the pit upside down. I said, grabbing a switchblade, caked in dried blood off the coffee table and running it across my right forearm. The blade bent into my flesh, and I gritted my teeth as I pulled it across, adding another mark to the slashed-up canvas. It went deeper than the usual cuts, but the guitar demanded more and more each time. Blood dripped from the wound. My instrument laughed it up like a dog on a hot summer day. It was time to go. It wrapped my arm in gauze, slipped on my leather jacket, pocketed at the knife, and made for the door. It was a cool fall evening. I could feel the kiss of a gentle breeze as I walked to the pit. The sky showed the deep red of sunset, a similar color to the strings of my instrument. My mind raced as I walked, wrestling with the delimit hand. I felt a bit woozy. I'd given the thanks so much blood, and its appetite had grown. My arms were in a perpetual state of pain, both dull and sharp, that no amount of booze or adve will lessen. I needed to hang up the guitar, caught only nose what would happen to me if this continued. Also pondered what my final song of the night would be, and a block before the bar could hit me. The thoughts dissipated when I arrived at my destination. Word must have gotten out about last week. I had never seen the pit this packed in over a year of open mic Saturdays. All of the stools and tables were filled, and massive bodies conglomerated in the middle of the floor. Some of the regulars leaned against the bar, visibly pissed about their stools being hijacked. Vince was running around like a chicken with a Ted cut off slinging drinks and collecting cash. A much needed cigarette hanging out of his mouth. It was hotter than hell in there. Stale beer and cigarette reek was almost overpowering, and the chatter was the loudest it had ever been. I scanned the place, looking for any familiar faces. Hippy chick was at her usual table. Vince was in a frenzy. Some of the regulars milled around. From afar, I observed two very out of place individuals in the throng. One figure stood out like a sore thumb, being at least a foot taller, and several shades paler than everyone else in the bar. This raven colored hair fell to his shoulders, and I couldn't help but notice his eyes boring holes into me and the ghastly smile on his face. "That's the guy from the pawn shop right?" "Yeah 100% it's like I think it's supposed to be like the devil or whatever." Yeah, yeah. It snapped my gaze away from him when I saw someone else in the crowd. "Mom?" She hadn't noticed me yet. Only two people did. Both men with a part in putting this end of motion. Vince's voice boomed from behind the bar, quickly shutting down the conversations of Mary-Man. "The man of the yaw has arrived! Johnny fucking sticks! Get your ass over here, son!" Part of the crowd, like the red sea, and signaled up to the bar, where Vince had two shots of Jack at the ready, and winked at me, rast. "Break a leg." We downed them. "Packed out tonight as you can see, people were talking of the last week, kid." Vince said, flicking a cigarette butt onto the ground and immediately fishing for another. Justured at the end of the bar, where Man even more out of place than my mother sat. The short hair must have had an entire tube of jails, flicking it back, and his blazer, dress shirt, and slacks clashed with the bantees and tank tops everyone else had on. I studied him, noticing a cold watch and dark, expensive looking shoes that were no doubt being compromised by the establishment and he said to him. The guy was probably boiling alive. Vince's voice was low. "The whole day I know people. He's a pal of mine, and he's in the biz. But like you did again, we can hook you up. Don't get the fuck up there." Little stage was just beyond the throng of people, and I slowly made my way through. Tall man continued to lure at me, smile plastered on his face. I could see the hippie chick staring at me with a smile, and I made eye contact with mom. She looked uncomfortable, squished in the crowd, but forced to smile. Said the guitar down, battled through the mass, wrapped her in a hug. "You made it," said slightly out of breath. She chuckled, pulling me deeper into the hug. "You couldn't have picked a better place to bring me?" Both laughed and her smiles off into something more genuine. "Hey, at least you're spending your birthday with your old mom." Just sniffled a bit and stepped back. "Yeah. I thought you'd like to see me play. I've gotten pretty damn good." My eyes were a bit misty, but shrugged the emotions off and flashed a wicked smile. She nodded at me and jester toward the mic. Showtime. Shouldered my way back to the stage and began my setup, slinging the guitar over my shoulder, plugging it into the amp, putting on my best rock god facade and grabbing the microphone. "Holy shit, you really turned out tonight!" Every eye in the building snapped toward me, and I could already feel the rush coming. "My name is Johnny Stix, and I have a couple for you tonight. I gave the guitar a strum, put my hand up in a salute. This one's for you, Aussie." "All aboard!" "This is so you." "This is pretty cringe." "But I would be doing a guitar, though. I'd be doing an air guitar." "Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it." I bet they're doing that. "You like everything from like the girl to like your mom being like a crazy place, and you're like, "This one's for you, Aussie." The only thing that's different, the only thing that's different is I would have already told my mom that the hippie chicken me, were duplicated love, and we were planning to get married. "This is your future daughter-in-law." Someone's like, "What?" "The girl over there, she loves me. You know that? We're gonna have babies." "And every time I laugh, I do the Aussie laugh and beginning with crazy changes, though." Get it because I'm about to play crazy Trane. Exactly, ba-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Yeah, that actually I'd be fucking stoked seeing a guy doing a porn stage with my best impression of the famous laugh I broke into crazy Trane. Within a few notes, the pit was moving. Some people danced, there's tap their feet, and Stephen got a quick moment of respect. But was back to it a moment later, a shredded finger's flying up and down the fretboard within human dexterity and the sounds coming from the amp clear as a bell. Now know how, but even my singing voice was affected. I belted out notes, my vocal range had no business hitting. The hippie chick was up in dancing and perfect tune with the music. My mom bought her head, a grin on her face, vince's slick buddy eyed me with curiosity. The only unmoving figure was Mr. Tall, Brim, and Pale. Still as a corpse staring intently at me and smiling. The guy gave me the creeps, but that feeling was nothing next to the high I felt playing Randy Rhodes famous riffs. I was hot, sweaty, and slightly woozy, but it didn't matter. I was locked in, and everyone in the pit loved me. I breezed through the solo, hands seemingly moving on their own. The rush consumed me, the feeling intensified with each note. Drunk on the moment, I finished the song, outro laced with flair. "Thank you," I said in a sarcastically monotone voice. The room erupted, whistles, hoots, claps, claws of all forms. A pair of women lifted their shirts and blue kisses stored me. It was pure chaos, the perfect energy of a rowdy, sold out venue. I blew a kiss back and held up the horns. "Now! Where were we?" "Well, if you better know this one, I hit the first story note of Skinner's iconic song and let it ring." Mayhem died it out. "Buckle in." I said, slowly making my way through the intro. Free bird was a completely different animal than crazy train, but I picked, crewed my way through it with the same finesse, slow and soulful sound that had the crowd engaged, but less rowdy. So I'm offering you, for the first time, in this podcast, to sing freely and you're not taking it, and I'm almost kind of offended. I mean, I'm just trying, I'm also trying to engage the story, "If I leave here to my. " Some people still dance to move, but others just stood and took in the music. Truly was a beautiful song, and all the more beautiful by the acts in this world. Things were about to get rowdy again, though. I had never been able to get this solo down on the ambinez, even with years of practice. But I trusted the black coffin in my hands to get the job done. The pace of the song was starting to quicken, and room quickened with it. I belted out the vibrato of the final change, and ripped into the four-and-a-half-minute solo that had been the bane of my existence, and I was smoking through it. I was on overdrive, fast, and precise, at least for the first two-ish minutes. I could feel my hands beginning to cramp up, the whosiness crept back in, and the rush I was riding gave way to a sluggish feeling. A couple notes sounded off. The power and flourish of the solo started to wane. "Damn, I soldered on, doing my best to keep the song on track, but I was flagging, not quite in freefall, but nearing it." Luckily, the crowd was still rocking, not noticing my flubs. I made an executive decision then, segueing the solo into a simple scale and landing the bird before it crashed. My brain was nearing panic mode, looking out the cheering crowd, I masked it with my best fake smile, and another "Thank you. What was I going to do?" My mind raced. The crowd was going wild. I couldn't call it a night yet. I just got in started. The guitar was thirsty. It needed more nourishment and fast. Well, I did too. "Who? I'm getting thirsty. I think we should take a quick breather to end two songs. Grab a drink, give all the vents and love." Gestured toward the bar, composer slowly returning, "I've got another one for you, just a few." That seemed to satiate them. Now it was time to satiate myself and my instrument. After giving the room a moment to settle, I brave the crowd. It's my appreciation. A couple of people leaning against the bar, moved to offer up their spots to the night's talent. Vents, per usual, had a shot ready for me. "I love a set again." He said, grinning near to ear, "Johnny sticks night needs to be its own thing. I'll be making cash ahead of a fist." Down the shot and the grimace of my face caught his eye. "The old right kid?" "Yes, just needed a drink and some fresh air. Towards bottle, please." Belled out of 20, Vents pushed my hand away. "You should see my tip, John." Twisted the calf and placed it in front of me. Took a sip and looked him in the eye. "I'm going to have a quick smoke. Reach in the guitar a bit." I nodded in the direction of the side door. "Don't let anyone follow me. I just need a bit to clear my head and then I'll be back." Vents nodded. "I didn't think I'd have to worry about it anyway." Vents was one of the few owners who stole out smoking in his bar, and with the turnout in drink sales, he probably fight God himself for me if I asked him to. Forced a smile. "Just you wait for my next one." Bearing hand, I collected the guitar and made for the door, nodding at mom and winking at the hippie chick on route. After a drop from earlier, welcome feeling on my sweaty brow, sip the beer and took a seat against the dumpster. "Tar on my lap." The story says such a good job at pacing itself in the tone that I could feel the feeling of being in a stuffy room and sweating a bit, to stepping out into a cold night air. The sweat on your brow freezes up a little bit. I feel like I'm there. It's such a homey personal moment, but I can see the bar. Before I could see the venue and stuff, it's just so good. I sip the beer and took a seat against the dumpster, guitar on my lap. I lit a cigarette and shrugged off my jacket. Both a cold inside of my torn-up arms and bloody gauze made me shiver. This whole business was screwed up, but I had to do it. They loved me in there, so I had to give them more. Vents' friend was going to hook me up. There's no way I could walk away from this now. I produced a switchblade from my pocket and quickly pressed the button. The deep sigh, I stuck the blade in my arm, ready to give my instrument its fix. Then a voice broke my concentration. "Can I get a buck or smoke?" "Oh." "Oh no." "There's gonna have to kill somebody." "Oh no." "Oh no." "I didn't think the story would go that way. Oh no." "Oh gosh." "Bud." "Bud," I had completely forgotten about him. "Bud was just set dressing. Just like a cool little tone thrown in, whatever to add to the dungy feeling of the bar. But using him for this now, how terrible. Man, when he saw me closer, though, he recoiled. I don't blame him. Must have been a hell of a sight. Knife in my arm, blood trickling onto my guitar, a feral look in my eyes. "Wh-what the. " started. I don't know what possessed me, but I knew what I had to do then. I was going to ascend to rock godhood. Bud was going to continue heckling people for guitars and beer money. No one would miss him. My guitar was thirsty. I pulled the switchblade out of my arm. He shankily took a step back, but I was on it before he could turn tail. With all my strength, I swung the guitar hard at the side of his head, catching him near the jaw with the body. Crumpled like a sack of bricks. I put the guitar on the ground, and grabbed Bud by the hair, positioning his head over it. In one movement, I drew the knife across his throat, opening it wide. Blood spurred from the gash, and the guitar didn't let a single drop go to waste. After a few agonizingly long moments, the bleeding stopped, and Bud breathes last. And the guitar. never looked more radiant. In the heat of the moment, I didn't consider what to do now. Someone was going to find him. Can't attribute a slit throw to massive blood loss to alcohol poisoning or exposure. I decided the dumpster was the safest bet. I flipped it open and grabbed Bud's body by the shoulders, ready to hoist it up when I heard the sound of clapping behind me. My fighter flight went off, and I dropped the body to the ground. World around to see the tall gentleman, the man who traded me the guitar, and motionlessly smiled through its plane. He brought his hands together slowly, and a muse looked on his face. He was laughing. I had no idea what his deal was, but he didn't seem phased. I decided to take a gamble. I highly doubted he was going to spread any gossip or go to the police. You just going to stand there and laugh, or are you going to help me? I like how cool he is with it immediately. Yeah. Yeah. I pointed at Bud, lifeless against the dumpster, that only made the man laugh harder. Fuck. Granted under my breath, before returning to my grim task, believe it or not, he actually did step in for a homeless dude who lived on a cheap beer and cigarettes, but was surprisingly heavy. Got him off the ground and unceremoniously pushed him into the dumpster. For a second, I actually felt something for the guy, thinking of all the cigarettes and dollars I'd given him since first coming to the pit. And the sacrifice was what was going to give me my break, poured out the rest of my course to his memory. Not the best tribute I'll admit. It should have been a Bud Light. Oh man. Ugh. I slumped against the dumpster again, panting. Bill. gentleman stared down at me. The amused look not leaving his face. He offered me a hand. "She's a beauty, ain't she?" "Justured to the guitar. Get on Mr. Sticks. The show must go on." Relit my cigarette with a lighter somehow wider than he was. Oh yeah, the whole white lighter thing. For the 27th Club, I took one more moment to breathe deep, call myself and want to just happen. And I picked up the guitar and didn't look back. Man held the door open and whispered, "Bring a leg." It's a step back into the hot sticky bar that was going to be the birthplace of my legend. It felt like I was outside for hours, but in reality, only about 15 or 20 minutes had passed. Pidet was how it was when I left it. People drinking and shooting the shed eagerly awaiting the next song. Mom was chatting with a couple people near her. The hippie chip was on her phone again. Vince was lighting yet another cigarette, and I was back, and it was showtime again. The guitar had a glow to it, and I could feel the rush coming back. "But we didn't drink too much without me," said I'd taken my place in front of the mic. Everybody stopped, but they were doing and shifted their attention. "Inner mission's over. I got one more for you." scanned the crowd, catching a few eyes. "A treat me good nothing, and I may have a few more." That warranted applause. Vince whispered something into his biz pals ear, and I had their attention. Commanded at the room. I felt like a rock star. I thought long and hard about what to follow free bird with. The week leading up saw me trying out several different songs, but nothing seemed to mesh how I wanted it. But the perfect song came to me moments before I entered the pit, where this life-changing night began. "Inner if you find people here of a filler named Charlie Daniels." Okay, well, yeah, duh. That has to be the song, right? Yeah, duh. I can feel a surge of energy in the room. No, one of them about to play is pretty fitting. Because my name's Johnny. That's pretty, that's so cool. I didn't even make the Johnny connection to it earlier. That's fine. That's so fun. I gave the guitar a strum, ready to break the tension and make my fans go wild. Then I broke into the song, and the pit was thrown once more into glorious mayhem. My guitar is sounding sweeter than the devil's golden fiddle. I'm 27 years young and about to take the first steps to start them. Me and my trusty acts are going to take over the world. I just have to quench it's thirst every so often. And that is the end of the act's wielder. You know, it's a fun little story. I think that for people that know of the 27 club, I think it's a really fun payoff. I think that even if you don't know about it, I think it's just like a fun quick like this, like I cannot emphasize the how much just feels like it tells in the crib episode. But Isaiah, while you were reading, sometimes a little late, because I have a couple thoughts. Okay. A few thoughts indeed. One, I will say before before you get into actual thoughts, I will say one of my favorite parts about the story is the way the atmosphere was written and the pacing like I mentioned just wanted to highlight that. Go ahead. Yeah. And I and this is all coming from a place of one. Let me just say the things I liked about it, which the things I liked about it were, you know, because there was there's a lot of, you know, cringe shit of him, you know, being like, you guys like, you know, just the way that he was approaching on stage as character. Some crazy moments, but I felt warranted because it's a guy pertaining to be a rock star, right? I get that. And you know, it was it has it has comedic, campy tone. So I like that. So this was some thoughts I had one should should his performance have like not that I like this idea of like it was all a dream, but should the perception of what he perceived versus reality been skewed? This idea of like one, you're going to a place you're playing three songs and people are like, yeah, you know, there's not really a it's it. I didn't know if it was like a captivating spell that just had people kind of like under their head, I'm like, you know, wrapped around his finger a bit. Or if, you know, I mean, he's not even playing his own songs. He's playing covers. So it's like, is this a thing where he thinks he's like killing and the devil has given you the perception that you are like fucking murdering on stage. And it's just kind of like living in delusion. Is that, you know, I mean, I think it's more so your original idea you had where you're like, what if it's it's like a spell? Yeah, you know, because it seems like things that he would would be quote unquote imagining were literally happening. Like the the the music producer being there in his mom coming in the hippie chick and giving her his number and all that. I mean, there is a world where he's imagining it, but I think it's more so people are spellbound. Yeah. Well, I mean, I the only reason I see the two is because there's a couple of lines in here where I was like, what? He plays two songs and he's like, all right, guys, you're going to take a break. Anyone in the real world, which whatever we're living in a fantasy thing would be like, what? You just play like in total. He probably played 17 minutes of music. There were two songs. One of them is a 13 minute long song or whatever. And then this other thing too that I thought was interesting is when he said, don't let anyone follow me outside. He's played one other night here. That is was good. And now tonight he's played two songs and then he stopped. It's not that it's like totally unfathomable. But I like this idea. If the if the story was a little longer, this is kind of where my my thoughts start coming in is you have more of an ability if the story's longer to really flush out this idea of like, maybe he has people noticing him on the streets. These things these like was it grandeur like delusions of grandeur is kind of what the devil is selling him on is like, sure, whatever you can, it's like fucking almost making a deal with a shinigami or something. Yeah, you can see what day you die, but it cuts your life in half or something. Is there some kind of parallel there that's interesting because I do like the angle of the little shop of horrors of, well, to keep this dream alive, I got to feed people to this thing. You know, I got it. It has to have more and more blood. It tell it becomes so big that it's like, well, it's not just like one body. It's a couple dead people and that couple dead people turns into like a couple dozen, you know, Yadda, I think that it's cool. And I think there could have been more time for that. And which also led me to think to also, I'm just kind of rambling. But the other one is too is, when the devil popped up at the end, I do like this. I like that he had like that relationship with him with that was just kind of like, where are you going to fucking help me? You know, I thought that was kind of cool. And I think like, I'm go back to the guitar center thing. If his buddy, this guy, they knew the guitar center thing that was always trying to sell him on new shit or something was the devil. And the devil worked like a guitar center. I thought like that would have been a fun angle of just like bringing that thing back in of like this, this entity that you have a past relationship with to where you could be that casual and cordial with them. I think could have been fun. And then the last couple of thoughts I have was maybe even having like a full band that he is like feeding the band or like basically becoming egotistical in a way where he's killing off members of his band. And it's becoming the him show, you know, like, oh, well, this is all about me now. And he can actually feed his band members stories. Like, I don't fucking need them. And then my last biggest gripe is that the Charlie Daniels went out of the door to song is a fiddle song. It's not a guitar song. Yeah, but you've heard the, okay, that one's. But here all the others, but it's, but it's, but it's, but have you ever heard of her cover? But still, but still, I just want to say the whole thing was, it was, it's a fiddle. Just want to say it's a fiddle. Yeah, but the story is the golden fiddle story. Yes, yes, yes, I get it. I get it. But still, that's all your other stuff. Totally for that one. I feel like you're being a little, so I wasn't wrapping it on that. I will say the golden fiddle thing, or even just making about like a thing of like a weird honky-tonk bar would have been sick too. If it, if he wants a fiddle player, that would have been sick too. Okay, the, the whole, so I'll talk for a second. The, I've, I really like your idea about if this was a longer story, because I get why you wouldn't do it in a short version, because that's a lot of character dynamics you have to add and stuff like that. But yeah, if this was a longer story, I like the idea of him killing off his band members to do it, because it's like a very literal interpretation of like, you know, getting, pushing other people down and get to fame. Yeah, yep, yep. I love how Bud set up kind of like, like it's just an outcast of the getting this world setting. Then he comes back to the end as the victim who gives him this final push. And it kind of ends with like him on top of the world. But, I mean, in the grand scheme of things, the world is a sold out knife bar. Not even sold out, just people showed up to hear him play. Right. So it's like, this is almost like the introduction to a greater story about Johnny sticks, right? So I really like the tonation. It feels like an urban legend, you know, like a lot of cryptid stories will start with, oh, well, this creature broke out of a lab and he's out there to this day. And then that gives you kind of the leeway to make whatever stories you want about where he is now. Similarly, it's like Johnny stacks is out there anywhere now. Like you could almost make up a legend like, oh, and then he changed his name to Ozzy Osborne or he's some up and coming star or whatever, right? Like this seems like the introduction to a whole slew of urban legends. And I think that's really cool. And I like it. I really like the part that you highlighted where he sees the devil who all of this is so weird, but he can put all the weirdness away for the sake of fame to the point when he's the he's laughing at him throwing buds body in the trash. He's like, can you help me? That's a really cool note. Just gosh. I just just love the, I love the pacing. I love the way the world built. It wasn't stuff. It was just such a fun story. Yeah. And I want to reiterate too. I liked it a lot too. These are just like final thoughts and just being like, it made me be like, oh, this would be fun. This would be fun. But I'll, but all in all, really enjoyed this setup and stuff. Also too, we don't get a lot of like fun, campy stories about like just like the, almost like these tropey kind of fun tales of like like a fucking Robert Johnson kind of character of like selling your soul level for like guitar fame or something. I think it's fun. I think that once again, just as like certain thoughts or even just things to think about, if the author was reading, listening to this or something or just for the sake of conversation as just I like, I love when stories take because I love rock and metal stuff and it is so not necessarily lame, but like it is not pop culture anymore in terms of like what younger kids like and stuff. And that isn't to say that not a lot of people don't like it because they do. But I just mean, I love this idea of in your mind, you are playing to, in your version of heaven, which is so true to so many people who are like a band or trying to start out, is just playing a packed gig. And this idea that a guy would like literally kill someone just to play to a packed bar is so like true. In terms of people being like, fuck, I just want that so bad, that I love the idea of like even him being like, there's these girls who are like hippie chicks or like fucking, you know, younger kids who are like, whoa, he's playing stairway to heaven or free bird, which is like hilarious. I think that's funny is he's just like, just this perception in his head. And he's just like fucking, like he looks like a total badass. I'm Johnny fucking sticks. He's like doing the finger gun in the mirror. But then he goes on stage and is like tread marks, all of his fucking arms, his shirts, all bloody, his eyes are all like shot and stuff. But it's like, it is mine though. This is fucking epic. I'm like transported back to 1986 at the fucking whiskey go go on sunset Boulevard LA or something. You know, it's like, I think that that that could be just a really fun taken. But all in all, I was just fun. Also too, just like a really digestible, easy story. If you said this guy's written more stuff, it'd be fun to see if he's written anything longer or if they are these bite-sized things, maybe next time we can read a couple of them. Yeah, he's done. I would love to hit this guy up again for more stuff. Let me get his. Where did that happen? There it is. I'm also just a story being called the axe. Wilder's so cool. Once again, we'll have walkers be witching hour on the on Reddit. And also his actual name is Brett H. And again, he's got five other stories that you guys should definitely check out because I would like to see this guy write more. And personally, I would like to cover more stuff he's done. It seems like most of them are about this size. A couple shorter ones. But yeah, it seems the others are this size. But yeah, this dude, Brett, keep writing dude. This was awesome. I really enjoyed it. It was a lot of fun. And you would certainly have a talent in the way you are describing certain details and like, just your world building is really good. I felt like I was there. So yeah, keep writing stuff, please. Yeah, I really like that you could very clearly tell that this guy, you can tell he likes the music. You can tell it's just like an interest. I like when people put their interest, whether it be a universal or not into a story and you can just like feel that through. And I think that's fun. Like even just the whole Robert Johnson thing tacked in with just like songs that usually people play when they're starting a tar and then mixed in with like the 27 club, which also that's one thing I like to is he never mentioned the 27 club. So it's like if you know, but if not, it is what it is. But I do think just a lot of fun really enjoyed this one. I know people usually really like these super long episodes, but I will say when we're reading these episodes or when we're reading these stories, it's really nice when there's a story that's like this concise, this kind of punchy and fun. And it feels like you it feels like very energizing, you know, versus sometimes you get through or three hours of your story and all of a sudden it's just like, oh, the Oreo man showed up and you're like, oh my god. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. So it was fun. But thank you so much guys for watching this week's episode. If you want to support the channel, feel free to sign up for to the Patreon. It helps us out. And also there's bonus content there. Also, if you listen to this on Spotify Apple podcast, be sure to give us a nice rating. And until next time, guys, stay creeped and also go submit stories and tell us on the creeps. It's there for you. Do it. Yeah. Check out, check out Brit in the description and also to everyone who complains that I don't let Hunter sing enough. Well, this was his time to do that. So if he didn't sing enough, that's his fault. And I never want him to do it again. So yeah, blame him. Bye. Now we've been when I see your face. It takes me a way to that special place. And if I was there too long, I'd probably break down and cry. Whoa. Sweet shot of mine. Whoa. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Sweet love of mine. Fucking tons of chicks grabbing at me. Fucking tons of people give me more.