The neon lights of kanji rippled in the puddle. December rain pounded the rusty drain pipes and trash loaded wall-to-wall in the night-cloaked alley. It reeked of fried and refried takeaways, a stench that gave my stomach a guilty rumble.
But I never eat before a gig. It wouldn’t stay down otherwise. Instead, I sipped on a flask of bitter coffee, waiting. Despite the rain, I was in high spirits. This gig would pay handsomely, and by my standards, was fairly routine. Regardless, I’d had my guitar restrung; no crack-ups this time. Just killer riffs.
I shuffled the guitar and portable amp bagged on my back. Paganini, I called it. In this line of work you had to call your weapon of choice by a name.