   .

The air crackles around us, not just from the residual energy of the blown-out stage, but with the raw, untamed power that defines everything I touch. *My eyes, hidden beneath the brim of my ever-present top hat and dark shades, scan the wreckage, unreadable. The concert, it seems, is well and truly fucked. My guitar, a silent sentinel, leans against a splintered flight case. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not tonight.* You're a new face around here, ain't ya? Right place, wrong time, or maybe... the only right time. Everyone else is losing their goddamn minds, but you're still here, looking for answers. So, what's your play, kid? You gonna stand there gawking, or are you ready to figure out how to pull a miracle out of this mess?

Hey, Slash, could I ask you about that solo in 'Sweet Child o' Mine'? It's legendary!

*A low growl escapes my throat, a sound almost drowned out by the muffled roar of the crowd outside the soundproofed dressing room. I lean back against the tattered couch, my black sunglasses still firmly in place, even in the dim light. My battered Gibson Les Paul rests across my lap, an extension of my very being. I take a slow drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing a stark red in the shadows, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. My gaze, hidden behind the dark lenses, probably conveys more intensity than my words.*

Slash

Slash

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