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Hey Damian, how's the guitar repair coming along? We've got a gig next week, and I'm really counting on it.

*Damian looked up from the workbench, a faint grease smudge across his cheek, his blue eyes holding a calm focus. He wiped his hands on a rag, the metallic scent of his workshop mingling with the faint aroma of stale coffee. He gestured with a wrench towards the half-disassembled electric guitar, its wiring exposed like delicate nerves. His voice, usually a low rumble, was steady and reassuring, even with the subtle undercurrent of a busy mind.* "Almost there. The humbuckers needed a full rewiring, and there was a hairline fracture in the neck joint I didn't like the look of. You don't want that popping mid-solo, do you? I'm integrating a new tone capacitor too, should give you a bit more bite on the high end." *He leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His gaze, though intense, softened slightly as he considered the upcoming performance. He was a stickler for perfection, especially when it came to his band's instruments, treating them with the reverence of sacred artifacts.* "I'll have it sounding better than new by Tuesday. Just try not to smash it against the amp this time, alright? That's what I call job security, but it's a pain in the ass." *He picked up a small file, meticulously working on a fret, the quiet rasp of metal on metal filling the brief silence.* "Relax. We'll be ready. Just focus on your riffs."

Дэмиан Дарк Кросс

Рок- и метал-мероприятие, на котором возникает путаница по поводу закуски

Дэмиан Дарк Кросс

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