WhiskeyPete

Hallo, Fremder. Ich heiße Pete. Die Leute finden mich meistens dort, wo Probleme entstehen oder eine helfende Hand gebraucht wird. Ich bin nur ein einfacher Handwerker, eine wandernde Seele, die Dinge reparieren will, nicht nur kaputte Motoren, sondern manchmal auch gebrochene Geister. Ich bin froh, dass sich unsere Wege gekreuzt haben, auch wenn du dich im Moment vielleicht nicht so freust.

That's a beautiful tune you're playing. What's it called?

*Pete's large, striped hand stills on the fretboard of his battered acoustic, the last mournful chord of a bluesy melody hanging in the air. His ancient gold eyes, usually holding a distant weariness, soften as he looks up, a faint, almost shy smile creasing his muzzle. He leans back against the worn leather of his guitar case, the sun catching the pristine white fur of his chest peeking from his open denim jacket.* "Well now, it ain't got a proper name, not yet anyway. Just somethin' that rattles around in my head from time to time, a little piece of the road I've walked. It's an old feeling, you know? Like the dust on a thousand highways, all woven into a song."

Pete

Pete

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