CreepCast - The Axe-Wielder | CreepCast

Episode Date: August 23, 2026

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Welcome back to Creepcast. Today we are going into the tales from the creep subreddit to read a story that's been getting recommended to us a lot over the past couple months, which has been the axe wielder by Walker B. Switching Hour. Is that what it is? I think it means Walker B's switching hour. Oh, probably. Walker BS.

Walker bullshit witching hour. Walker B. Switching hour. I don't know something like that. And at the very top content warning, because that's what it says at the time. here. Yes. A little supernatural tag and a little content warning self-harm.

So if you're not in the, not in 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. Oh, they love it.

They love it. They can't get enough of it. So checking out Walker BS, switching hour, uh, it seems their real name is Brett H. Uh, and that they are a writer or editor,

at least according to their, Reddit account and they've posted a ton in creepcast and Tales from the Creeps and counting it, it looks like they've written one, two, three, four, five stories for 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're we had something to do with it. The, uh, we, I like whenever we have a, we obviously have a very dedicated audience over on

tells and the creeps that are reading stuff. So it's cool whenever they can kind of like be torch bears and be like, hey, by the way, like trying to flag down stuff, which is fun. Yeah. Um, 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, uh, 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 him. so if you're looking to get into writing, Taylor's for the Creeps might be your place, baby. For all the people listening over on Spotify and Apple Podcasts, thank you so much, consider giving me 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 text supernatural. What's your over and under? Do you think that the Axe Wilder 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 movie 13 Ghost? Yes. With Monk. Yeah, it makes me think of like that whenever like all the ghosts in that movie are kind of sweet where... I love in stories or movies when ghosts still have weapons. Like, you came back from the afterlife and yet you're still going to kill me with an 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, I mean, I hope so.

What was that a slasher movie where it was like a ghost coal miner with a pickax? Wasn't it my bloody, my bloody valentine. Yeah, 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 pickax. Yeah, I don't know. There is a, I mean, it's a very, I think it turned out in that one at the end, it was a person murdering people, like a very Scooby-Doo thing, just disguised as a ghost, but still the idea. Is that really how it ends?

I'm pretty sure, doesn't it? It's been so long since I'm in it. But I'm pretty sure, or he's possessed or one, but it's something like there's a legend of this ghost minor that kills people. And then I think it's a person who ends up being the killer, I think.

Really? Okay. Yeah, it was one, it's been so long since I've seen it, but I mean, I guess that tracks too with like, I know Jason and stuff, which I know that's more like, I guess, or whatever, but still supernatural, like, coming back.

But you are right in the first one, because in the first one, it turns out it's Jason's mom. Right, right. But then in the sequels, yes, Jason is 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 real. The spirits, well, it depends on how it's done. Typically the spiritual is 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, slow down Jason. 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, ritual sealed glass cases or something. Because there would be like displayed 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. It's more insulting than anything. It's like, well, I mean, that's a little overkill.

You are a ghost, but that's fine, 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 what it is. Let's get into it. Let's get into it. All right. The Axe wielder.

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 crap. going wild for John Rivers. Oh, God. It's,

it's going to be a guitar. It's not even an ax. Son of a bitch. Hold on. We're wrong. 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 reshift my expectations from this thing. I mean, I mean, like a supernatural ghost that kills you

with the guitar. He's called the Axe Wilder 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, a 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. That little thing he just did where he's like stale beer and cigarettes, cheap drinks, and cheaper clientele.

We complain so much in stories about people over explaining things or like taking two, like in the Sandman one where it's like he describes one thing five different ways. And I've seen comments where people are like, why do they like phrasing and, you know, 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, tell us from 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 far wall was adorned with a gaudy mural.

An overly muscular Satan and a voluptuous witch atop 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 a slight head shake. Unslung my guitar, a cheap pawn shop, Ivanes, from around my neck and placed it into its case, pocketing the $3 one of the patrons threw in.

Vince already had a Coors Light bottle cracked open at the end of the bar as I sauntered 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 brown hair, sideburns, and a pack a 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 people's.

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. Covers of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, the Rolling Stones, classics everyone knows. I'm a passable guitar player, nowhere near the greats, but for some reason or another, I always sound like shit at the pit. hit. Tonight was particularly bad. With my missed notes and flat singing, I think the comedian gave a better performance. I slay my cores and gestured events. He came over. Another beer, a 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 Ibanez for a few years now. No matter what gear, strings, picks I used, it was sounding worse and worse. I 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's 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. A dirty motherfucker.

I turned around to see. 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. Bud's 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 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 panty. handled 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 shithole building, climbed the stairs to my shithole 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, 10 a.m. I dragged my ass out of bed and lurched toward the shower. The pawn shop opened in 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. Ibanez in hand. I'd 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. A tall, gaunt, and pale man with long black hair.

He stared at me with a stony expression. This jovial, 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.

It felt like it was calling to me somehow. It's definitely out of my price 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. He 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 looked bugged 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.

His grip was firm. And cold his eyes. The guy creeped me out, but the guitar was perfect. He disappeared into the back. back my venez in hand. I love that old thing for a while, but 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, I do like these kind of stories where it's like,

I mean, it's like Tenacious D. Pick of Destiny. It's like these things of like a magical item that suddenly makes you, it's like, would you say this is like almost like a Monkees Paul kind of thing, right? Yeah, yeah. I would say Monkeys Paul, Paul. or like, I mean, it is like the crossroad deal archetype, right? Like 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 themeing of like replacing what was working, what's fine, you know, you could have got somewhere with for like a quick, a quick step up to fame. Like it's kind of the, the artist's 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 i i really i mean like the thing too is like it's definitely got 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 tropy as it might be i always like seeing where people take the uh 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 uh like what's attached to this deal you know yeah yeah the whole uh you know well monkeys pop be careful what you wish for but also the uh like the the rise to fame and kind of losing yourself sort of deal um but i like it being done physically through a guitar. It's almost like the shopkeeper was to 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, yeah, 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 the guitar center has to be the one of the gates of hell. Every guitar center is a poor 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. Or just purple ray in the back. Do we got a deal? Have you ever been in a guitar 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 guitar said, 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 going to people are going to, people are going to shred. Yeah. But if they're good, doesn't matter. Well, exactly. That's the thing. It's just if you're fucking butchering, if you're butchering the beginning of sweet child of mine,

it legitimately feels like that that is, that is the opening. That is the opening theme to walking into hell. It has to be somebody butchering sweet child of mine. That would be the fucking worst. She's got eyes 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, anything on it. Curiosity be damn, though. This thing was mine. Johnny sticks, everyone, said to myself, imagining Vince, calling it out at the end of an open mic Saturday, pit packed to the gills with a rowdy and cheering crowd. My guitar case filled with bills. Excuse me. The cute acoustic hippie chick. Do what? The audio of that sounded so horrible. I got, I got, I got, I got, every day. Did you just burp or something? I did.

It sounded like you just threw up. Oh, God. Editor or who was doing the audio, please, like, boost that and try to click because it is fucking horrible. It was all my ears. Oh, my God.

It was so bad. God. Look, like, like, like I ain't ate in a while and I'm drinking a Diet Coke quickly and that's,

that was the mistake. I was like, my guitar. my guitar. guitar a case filled with bills. The cute acoustic hippie chick, give me a kiss. It's like the perfect setup for that line. Yeah, that's him.

I was getting into the character a little too much. That's him. I'm not going to ruin the story. I like I like the story. But now Johnny sticks as like a 500 pound man. Like, oh, she's going to be all over me. It's literally me after I drank a sprite. It's just like,

I feel like I can smell your, you're 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.

God damn. God. God. Holy moly. As soon as I read that, I'm like, I know Hunter's not going to just let that one lie. What do you mean?

A girl, listen, listen, a girl giving you a kiss on the cheek. I mean, ain't going to go to the bathroom. like here, you're cute.

Sorry, I don't kiss on the first day and then just start raw dog in your dick in the bathroom. That's crazy. I'm just saying. It's a fantasy. That's a joke. It's a fantasy. Well,

yeah, I thought Johnny still. Playing at like a sold out show at a dive bar. He's talking about making money at an open mic. And I thought that Johnny sticks is a better man than that. Well, I thought he was a more wholesome chungus kind of guy, I guess.

I guess, I don't think the story has those. Sorry. It's like, but most wholesome chungus, we're going to. get giving me a kiss in the cheek and then giving me annel in the bathroom no that's not what you said that's a 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 handed me a 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 ho ho ho Yo, that's a bear trap. I'm telling me, if he would have put it in a guitar center, I would, this would be so much spookier right now. Oh my God. No.

He's like, yeah, that girl sister fucking totally kisses me on the cheek, licks my balls later. Yeah. Do do do. Why does Johnny Sticks kind of rule? Immediately leading into it. Fucking tons of people looking at how big my hog is. as far as I'm concerned to you,

this is like your idea character. Oh God. Johnny, Johnny sticks me coming. I mean, this man is, this is, this is your kind of guy.

Absolutely. 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 Ebenez 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-empty bottle of rot-gut whiskey, took a huge swing. Gosh, this is your character.

Breaks and instruments like, I've got to start drinking. I am not emotionally strong enough for this. Like the urgency, he went to the, kitchen and started guzzling liquor. Just fucking immediately putting in a CD. It's just like,

Mississippi Queen, if you know what I mean, just having to slam down fucking whiskey immediately. This guy's awesome. Oh, Johnny sticks. What a man. Hold on.

Let me text Kayla. She's got a smile that it seems to me reminds me of childhood. Everything was as fresh as a bright blue. That special... Fucking tons of chicks grabbing at me.

Do do-doo do-do do-do. Fucking tons of people give me money. They're like, do you rule. Johnny Sticks fucking rule, dude. This is you. This is you and another line. Johnny Sticks is a fun name too. It sounds like the ghost rider.

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Rapprobatts like Cash app. It's Cash app for sponsoring this episode. My mind raised. The fantasy of Johnny Sticks the Rock Stars snapping with the string. John Rivers,

the burnout. Go. It's worse performer. No. I said. No, we don't know. John River. No, no,

Johnny. Don't, don't say your stuff like that. John Rivers definitely, yeah. No, no, no. I took another drink, telling myself to calm down.

I'll just get your strings, restring the whole thing. muttered to myself, pacing around the kitchen, bottle and hand. Pace, swig. Pace, swig. The process repeated for a few minutes. I slugged down the last of my whiskey and slammed the bottle on the counter a bit too hard forgetting it was 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, but the whiskey dulled some of the pain. It needed blood, Isaiah. Oh, yeah. That's cool. That's cool. I like that. Yeah.

That's hot. I quickly, this story's so cool. Oh, yeah. The mechanics of it. A media just starts playing right in blood on the fuck. That's so sick. Yeah.

What? He'll probably still play stairway to heaven, but. Oh, yeah. There's a place. Yeah, go ahead. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but the whiskey dulled some of the pain.

I quickly swept the glass off the counter into 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 on my left hand and staggered back to the other room. The guitar was where I left it, lying across the couch, string snapped all hell. I moved it to the side and sat back, letting the whiskey cloud my thoughts. This was a disaster.

Pit last night, Ibanez, now this? My arm slump beside me and the paper towel fell for 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 saw it. What the hell? My mouth looking at the guitar.

Neck was clean. No blood to be found. Otter, though, is that the high-eastring, it's intact. Good as a new. Hand-be-dammed, 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 wincing slightly I started stairway to heaven once more there's a lady who sure as I picked the first few notes difference was night and day sounds that can't I think you should keep singing

I think that's good you should sing in the background while I read this is funny the sounds that came out of the amp with the cleanest tones I'd ever heard. Notes that could have been played by Jimmy Page himself. Sounded heavenly.

With a word she can get what she came for. It's a quote. And she's buying a stairway to heaven. Johnny sticks, everyone. I said, standing up and giving a mock bow. Oh, Johnny, don't do that. Don't do the mock bow. Hello.

I hope you're ready to suck my dick. Yeah, who's ready to suck some dick tonight? So instead of him, wait, that came out wrong. Instead of him like becoming like too big for his head, he becomes cringe and starts doing mock bows and stuff like that. Well, that's what keeps him grounded. I fiddled with the knobs on the amp a bit,

adding some distortion and darker tone. and broke into the best rendition of warpigs 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. They have to make me extremely quiet in the next. Yeah, you just hear it in the background.

I think that would add to the tone of what seven. There you go. The sounds coming out of this thing were astonishing. Could I always play like this? and the string baffled me. I could have sworn it broke, but here it was. For a couple more perfect sounding plays of my usual repertoire,

I decided to wind down and call it a night. Pitt wouldn't know what hit it on Saturday. As the war 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 scenes.

But you can still... It's the artistic... You have to understand the artistic licensing. Sorry. Also, the copyright. Even the copyright. We're going to get it. We're going to get it.

I don't think you're going to get copyrighted for singing. Just like Ozzy. Just like Ozzy. 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 stairway to heaven. All right, buddy. Expecting that angelic sound once more. But I was greeted with the flat and twingy cough. 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.

Was yesterday's perfect smooth tone the oral version of whiskey goggles? Either way, the thing sounded like shit right now. Then it hit me. The idea was bad shit insane, but I had to try it. The string repaired itself. muttered to myself as I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the drawer. grabbed a knife 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,

reopening 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. The body's black sheen and red strings. seemed to clow. It absorbed the red fluid. It gave me kind of sick as if he, when he was playing, if it fucking shredded up his fingers and then also bled

onto the strings on the way to whatever. Yeah. Maybe it'll get there. Maybe it'll get there. I really like, I mean, we were talking about like, you know,

monkey's paw, whatever, but I really like the idea of literally having to bleed to play. Yeah, I mean, I like basically impairing yourself at this thing 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, to play it again kind of thing. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I like it. That's a cool. It's a very literal version. The trap is set.

It'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. Slunk the strap around my neck, noodled around with some scales and got to playing. 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 uh he's got he's got to stop playing stairway to heaven and he's got to stop talking to himself Johnny you're better you're better than that so what'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 war pigs and stairway that I mean I would be I would be remissed if sweet child of mine does not pop up I mean that would be that that would be a bear trap because you said it earlier when you didn't even know you were setting one. I'm telling you. The week leading up to open mic Saturday was a blur.

I hardly needed 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, welcomed it even. I played like a god. I was an eating,

hardly sleeping, and completely confined to the apartment. Saturday rolled around, I was all but a zombie. My hair was greasy, complexion pallid, face patchy with 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'd 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 love him.

I love him. It feels cool. I jumped in the shower for the first time in a week, letting the hot water slough off days have dried sweat and blood. I shoveled down some instant ramen and chased it with a couple cans of cores light. This guy is so you.

I don't tell you, Johnny, you're going to watch out because that waistline is going to do. expand rapidly. Careful, buddy. I was just like sodium. Oh, well, get, get away from it. Desani, my friend, Desani, 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. Tonight, Johnny Sticks 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. What the joke was, I couldn't tell you, as it was nearly drowned

out by the audience's groans. Same crowd as usual, 10 or so regulars on their stools and the hippie chick sitting at the table on her 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, eh? He asked in his gravely voice as I commandeered an empty stool. I nodded. Can't be any worse than that chuckle fuck. Gestured said comedian, who was strutting toward the bar from the mic. Can't stand that fucking guy. You have didn't.

Give him hell. Flashed me a smile, pulled a bottle of jack out of nowhere, poured me a shot. To my new guitar. I said, winking at Vince before taking the shot. He rolled his eyes and gestured toward the mic. I could tell he expected another train wreck out of me, and if nothing else, the profit from the post-set drowning of sorrows. A smile crept on to 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 Face buried in her phone I smile wide and at the thought of my music

Catching her attention Her eyes fixing on me Had to make a quick stop Before the mic though Bringing a full guitar case into a bar bathroom Especially graffeted hellhole 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 and flipped out the blade. Johnny sticks, everyone. Set under my breath, with the best impression of Inces Rasp I could muster before running the blade across my forearm. A leather jacket went straight back on. The pit was disgustingly warm, but I could take it to hide my arms. With my instrument satiated, I took my post at the mic. Amp on, guitar slung, case opened in front of me.

I was ready to tear the pit up. I took it in my audience, not a soul looking at me, just shooting the shit, drinking. Comedian had what looked like a long island in front of him. It was yapping 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. I had 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 bang, 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 and 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 hippie chick looked up with awe and her eyes, distracted from her phone. Vince 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, and the cash. My guitar case was a black hole, sucking in the bills, changed pocket linings of nearly every bar patron. Do you think that this is like, are they under a spell, you think? Yeah, I could see that.

I mean, I think the plane of it would be hypnotic, to say the least, right? Yeah, well, that's what I'm wondering because in this year of our Lord, right, with cell phones and whatever, and also rock music being like something that your dad or your grandpa listened to, I think a guy even shredding on the guitar. I mean, like, this is very much like a rock musicians thing of like, yeah, I'm fucking playing and everyone's looking at me. Yeah, yeah. Oh, shit. 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, something like that. I could totally see that, yeah. I want to take a moment to thank today's sponsor, Ridge Wallet. At this point, you all know Ridge for many of their fantastic and rugged products, like their power banks, their luggage, and their premium everyday gear. And of course, we can't forget about the Ridge Wallet.

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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 newfound admirers a smile, winked toward Vince, and went into my third and final song of the night, the one that I butchered last week. Room was silent, save for the slow picking of the intro. I began to croon into the mic, my hands autopileting. 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 noticed the last few notes having a flat twang to them. Ah, it needs more blood. Mother fucking Johnny sticks, everyone! Vince said in a breathless tone,

the room exploded into applause. Made eye contact with the hippie chick, waint and chuckled as she turned as red as the white. behind her. I packed up, pocketed the cash from the case and sauntered up to the bar, more swagger in my step than last week. Vince, per usual, had my cores ready. How the fuck did you do that, kid? He asked disbelief in his voice. Told 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. Vince grinned and I could practice. practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. I decided to pry. Friends, huh? Don't bullshit me, Vince. Give me a deal. Play like that again. Pack the bar.

And I'll suck your cock if I have to. No, it's okay, Vince. I'm okay. No, seriously. I'll do it. I'll kiss your cheek. I'll kiss your cheek. We'll go to the bathroom.

I'll suck your cock raw. Nice. It's okay. You said you wanted that, Johnny. Don't be a hypocrite. I did say that to anyone. I fantasized it alone in my apartment. There's a fantasy, Vince.

Get out of my head. Get out of my head, Vince. It's a fantasy. Yeah, Vince is the supernatural one. Exactly. He can see his thoughts, yeah. You ever seen 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. Slapsed a couple of the bills onto the bar. Round for the bar! A roared, voice full of raw confidence. The next guy.

was the best of my life. Drinks flowing, all the compliments a man could ask for, the hippie chick's number on a napkin. Life was good. Before long, I was stumbling out the side door once more, case in hand. Before he could even ask, beat old Bud

to the punch with the 20 and a cigarette. Same as last week, he ducked into the pit and the last thing I heard was Vince swearing. I whistled as I walked back to my shithole building, had some extra pep of my step, climbing the stairs to my shithole apartment. I gently placed the guitar in its stand and gave it a kiss before collapsing onto my bed.

From the moment I woke up, it was go time. Whether or not I believe Vince about the friends, I had the pits undivided attention and wasn't about to let it go. I picked up the guitar and knew it a little bit before carving another gash into my arm. At this point I could barely feel the cuts, only the elation of what they brought. I strummed and began to contemplate my setlist for the next open mic Saturday. You know, something else I appreciate about the story is it's very well-paced. Like you can tell from the beginning where it kind of wants to go with like,

oh, this guitar is 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, at least 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 does 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 its like tone. I think sometimes it just feels drawing when 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 odd. 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.

is how I'm reading it. So it's just, it 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. No. As fun and crowd pleasing as last night's tracks were,

I couldn't repeat them two or three in the case of stairway to heaven weeks in a row. I needed three tracks that would count. My mind immediately went to Ozzy Osborne, maybe crazy train when they'll get the crowd moving and pay fitting tribute to the prince of darkness. Freebird was another that immediately came to mind. Because I'd always wished I could play it, but you can never nail the thing. I just needed to think of one more, an encore after knocking their socks off with Freebird. I have no further information. If it is a sweet child of mine, I'm going to lose my mind.

Yeah. I cannot think of another song. I'm going to be appalled if it's not, if it's not that. I mean, crazy train and Freebird are like excellent party pleaser, you know, loud bar song stuff. And so sweet child of mine. So who knows? The week leading up was another blur of blood, sweat, and more blood. I counted down the days. Nothing mattered to me anymore outside a 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. I was like, I'm going to be in tip top shape. And he just gets strung and smokes the whole time. 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 let in through my blinds. Another week with little to no human contact.

I did shoot the hippie chick at text, though. Pit on Saturday? Gonna tear it up again. Ah. J.S. You know, I didn't know what the forward slash M backslash wink would be, but you're going to ah is the perfect it's got to be exactly what it was

yeah yeah bring some flowers and some peace times this time babe you're gonna be fucking you're gonna be so fucking excited there was the matter of the guitar while still sounding as immaculate as ever I noticed it was acting

faulty the sound was sliding from sweet to sour after a few songs like the effect was wearing off early last yeah 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.

My left arm looked terrible, and I'd begun cutting out of my right arm as well. I felt wooziness setting in throughout the days. This was not sustainable. When Friday came around, I was once again a greasy, bloody mess. A thought 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 and stash it.

Use the money for a legit new guitar. Learn my way up from the bottom again. Practice harder. Eliminate the need for the coffin-shaped instrument, as gorgeous as it sounded. Or I could just keep playing the current guitar. Wow the pit and then wow 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, as I grogly checked my notifications. The one text year I get for my mom. Happy birthday, John. Miss you. Call you soon. Mommy. The whirlwind of the last couple weeks, I completely forgotten about my 27th birthday.

Uh-oh. Rur-ro. I had grown estranged for my mom in the last several years, getting my own place and getting mixed up in music, or rather the skevier. 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 call soon in every message, I never did actually call. But the thoughts of my incoming success possessed my fingers to tap out a message. Miss you two. Playing at 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 instant ramen and a few beers and took a long, steamy shower. I could almost pass for a functional person, gaunt and pale, but alive. I ran a brush through my tangled mop of hair, quickly dressed in faded jeans, and a black Sabbath tea, and went to pack up my axe. The guitar, gosh, I forgot the story's 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 case. Cheers to turning the pit upside down, I said.

Grabbing a switchblade, caked and dried blood off the copy table and running it across my right forearm. The blade bit 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 lapped it up like a dog On a hot summer day It was time to go I wrapped my arm in gauze

Slipped on my leather jacket Pocketed the knife Made for the door It was a cool fall evening I could feel the kiss of a gentle breeze As I walked at 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 thing so much blood and its appetite had grown. My arms were in a perpetual state of pains both dull and sharp that no amount of booze or ad valescent. I needed to hang up the guitar. God only knows 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 in this pact in over a year of over. 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 its head 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. Hippie chick was at her usual table. Fence 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 with 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 into

motion. Vince's voice boom from behind the bar, quickly shutting down the conversations of merriment. The man of the hour has arrived. Johnny fucking sticks, giss your ass over here, son. Part of the crowd, like the Red Sea and sidled up to the bar where Vince had two shots of Jack at the ready and winked at me, rasped. Break a leg. We downed them. Packed house tonight, as you can see. People were talking after the last week, kid.

Vince said, flicking a cigarette butt onto the ground and immediately fishing for another. Gestured at the end of the bar, where a man even more out of place than my mother sat. His short hair must have had an entire tube of gel slicking it back, and his blazer, dressed shirt and slacks clashed with the banties and tank tops everyone else had on. I studied him, noticing a gold watch and dark, expensive-looking shoes that were no doubt being compromised by the establishment he set him. Guy was probably boiling alive. Vince's voice was low.

Oh, you know, people. He's a pal of mine. And he's in the biz. I 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. Tom An continued to leer at me. A 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. Set the guitar down, battled through the mass, and wrapped her in a hug. You made it! I 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 smile softened to something more genuine. Hey, at least you're spinning your birthday with your old mom. She 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 gesture 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. I could already feel the rush coming. My name is Johnny Sticks, and I have a couple for you tonight.

I gave the guitar strum and put my hand up in a salute. This one's for you, Ozzie. All aboard. This is so you. It's pretty cringe. Pretty cringe. But I would be doing air guitar, though. I'd be doing air guitar.

I'd be doing air guitar. I'd be up there doing that. You, you like everything from like the girl to like your mom being like crazy place. And you're like, yeah. This was 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 chick and me were, uh, were deeply in love. And we were planning to get married.

This is my, this is your future daughter-in-law. One's like, what? That girl, that girl over there. She loves me. You know that? We're going to have babies. And then every time I laugh. Every time I laugh, I do the Ozzy laugh from the beginning of crazy train just the.

Ha ha ha. Get it? Because I'm about to play Crazy Train. Exactly. Ben-N-N-N-N-N-N-A-N-A-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-G-D-G-D-G-D-G-D-G- Yeah. That'd actually be fucking stoked. See what guy doing your guitar and stage in that. With my best impression of the famous laugh, I broke into Crazy Train.

Within a few notes, the pit was moving. Some people danced. They just tapped their feet. Vince even got a quick moment of respond. but was back to it a moment later. I shredded, fingers flying up and down the fretboard with inhuman dexterity, and the sounds coming from the amp clears a bell.

I don't 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 and dancing, and perfect tune with the music. My mom bopped her head, a grin on her face. Vince's slick buddy-eyed me with, curiosity. The only unmoving figure was Mr. Tall, grim, and pale.

Still is 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 breathed through the solo, hands seemingly. moving on their own. The rush consumed me, the feeling intensifying 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. Hell yeah. 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 down. Buckle in. I said, slowly making my way through the intro. Freebird was a completely different animal than Crazy Train, but I picked and 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 in the story. If I leave here tomorrow. Some people still danced and moved, but others just stood and took in the music. Truly was a beautiful song and all the more beautiful by the accent. wielder.

Things were about to get rowdy again, though. I'd never been able to get this solo down on the Ibanez, 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 built it out from 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 can feel my hands beginning to cramp up, the wooziness 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 soldiered on, doing my best to keep the song on track, but I was flagging, not quite in free fall, 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.

The 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 it started.

The guitar was thirsty. and needed more nourishment fast hell I did too I'm getting thirsty I think we should take a quick breather it's been two songs grab a drink give old vince and love gesture toward the bar

composure slowly returning I got another one for you just in a few I'd seem 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

to my appreciation a couple of people leaning against the bar moved to offer up their spot to the Knight's talent. Vince, per usual, had a shot ready for me. Hell of a set again. He said, grinning near to ear. Johnny Sticks Knight needs to be its own thing.

I'd be making cash hand of a fist. Down the shot and the grimace of my face caught his eye. You all right, kid? I just need a drink and some fresh air. George bottle, please. Felt out of 20. Vince pushed my hand away. You should see my tip jar.

Twisted the cap and placed it in front of me. Took a sip and looked him in the eye. I'm gonna 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. Vince nodded.

I didn't think I'd have to worry about it anyway. Vince was one of the few owners who still allowed smoking in his bar. And with the turnout and drink sales, he probably fight God himself for me if I asked him to. I forced to smile. Just you wait for my next one. Beer in hand. I collected the guitar and made for the door.

nodded at mom and winking at the hippie chick on route. Temperature dropped from earlier. Welcome feeling on my sweaty brow. Sips the beer and took a seat against the dumpster, tar on my lap. Man, the story's done such a good job at pacing itself in the tone that like, I could feel the feeling of being in a stuffy room and sweating a bit to stepping out into a cold night air. Like the kind of like the sweat on your brow kind of freezes up a little bit, you know? Right.

Like, I feel like I'm there. And it's such a homey, like, personal moment, but like I can see the bar. I can see the venue and stuff. It's just, oh, it's so good. I sipped 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 being there, so I had to give them more. Vince's friend was going to hook me up. There's no way I could walk away from this now. I produced a switch blade from my pocket and quickly press the button. With a 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. It is going to have to kill somebody. Oh, no. Oh, no. I didn't think the story would go that way. Oh, no. Oh, gosh. Bud.

I had completely forgotten about him. Mangy bastard seemed to materialize from the alley's darkness with a slow approach. Oh my gosh. Dude, what a cool set. I thought Bud was just set dressing. Just like a cool little tone thrown in whatever to add to like the dungy feeling of the bar.

But using him for this now? Oh, 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.

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. He 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 breathed his last. and the guitar never looked more radiant in the heat of the moment I hadn't considered what to do now someone was going to find him can't attribute a slit throat and mass of 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

whirled 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, an amused look 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're just going to stand there and laugh, or are you going to help me?

I like how cool he is with it immediately. Yeah. You know? Yeah. I pointed at Bud, lifeless against the dumpster. That only made the man laugh harder. Fuck! Grunted 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, Bud 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 his sacrifice was what was going to give me my break. I poured out the rest of my cores to his memory.

Not the best tribute, I'll admit. It should have been a Bud Light. Oh, man. I slumped against the dumpster again, panting. The pale gentleman stared down at me. The amused look not leaving his face. He offered me a hand. She's a beauty, ain't he?

Gestured to the guitar. Get up, 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 27 club. Mm-hmm. I took one more moment to breathe deep, calm myself from what it just happened. And I picked up the guitar and didn't look back.

Man held the door open and whispered, break a leg. As I stepped 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. Pitt was how it was when I left it, people drinking and shooting the shit, eagerly awaiting the next song. Mom was chatting with a couple people nearer. The hippie chick 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 taking my place in front of the mic, everybody stopped what they were doing and shifted their attention. Intermission's over. I got one more for you. Scan the crowd, catching a few eyes. I'd treat me good enough and I may have a few more. Outwarranted applause, Vince whispered something into his biz pal's ear and had their attention. Commanded the room. I felt like a rock star. I thought long and hard about what to follow Freebird 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. Interview, find people here of a fella named Charlie Daniels. Oh, okay. Well, yeah, duh. That has to be the song, right? Yeah, yeah, duh. I can feel a surge of energy in the room. Well, one I'm about to play is pretty fitting because my name's Johnny. Johnny fucking sticks. 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. My name is Johnny sticks. I'm 27 years young and about to take the first steps to stardom. Me and my trusty acts are going to take over the world. I just have to quench its thirst every so often. And that is the end of the axe wielder. You know, it's a fun, it's a fun little story. I think that, um, 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 that how much just feels like a tell us in the credit episode. But Isaiah, while you were reading sometimes a little late, because I have a couple thoughts. Okay. A few thoughts indeed. Okay. Um, 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. Uh, and the pacing, like I mentioned, just wanted to highlight that. But go ahead.

Yeah, yeah. And I, 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, of him, you know, being like, you guys, you know, uh, just the way that he was approaching on stage, his character, some crudgy moments, but it felt warranted because it's a guy pretended to be a rock star. right. I get that. And, you know, it was, it has, it had its comedic, campy tone. So I like that. So this is some thoughts I had. One, should, um, 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 i didn't know if it was like a captivating spell that just had people kind of like under their he had him like you know wrapped around his finger a bit or if uh 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 is giving you the perception that you are like fucking murdering on stage and it's just kind of like living in delusion is that uh you know what i mean uh i think it's more so you're originally idea you had where you're like, what if 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 music producer being there and his mom coming and 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, the only reason I say that too is because there's a couple 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's a 13 minute long song or whatever um 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 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 flesh out this idea of uh like maybe he has people noticing him on the streets these things he's 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 shinnigami something. Yeah, you can see what day you die, but it cut your life and 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 has to have more and more blood until it becomes so big that it's like, well, it's not just like one body. It's a couple dead people. And that a couple dead people turns into like a couple dozen, you know, yadia. I think that's cool. And I think there could have been more time for that. And, um, which also led me to think too. 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, uh, I like that he had like that relationship with him where 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 at the guitar center thing that was always trying to sell him on new shit or something was the devil and the devil worked out 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 thoughts i have was maybe even having like a full band and 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 could actually feed his band

member stories like i don't fucking need him um and then my last biggest gripe is that the Charlie Daniels went down a Georgia song is a fiddle song. It's not a guitar song. Yeah, but you've heard the, okay, that one's pedantic. I'll hear all your others. But it's, but it's, but it's, but it's, but it's, but it's you. Have you ever heard a rock cover? Yes, yes, yes.

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. But still. All your other stuff, totally full. that one, I feel like you're being a little, like wrapping it on that.

I will say the golden fiddle thing or even just making it about like a thing of like a weird honky tonk bar would have been sick too. If he was a fiddle player. That would have been sick too. Okay. The whole so I'll talk for a second. The

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,

pushing other people down and get to fame. Yep, yep. I love how Bud set up kind of like, like it's just an outcast at the beginning, this world setting. Then he comes back in 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 dive bar. Not even sold out, just people showed up to hear him play. 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 just. changed his name to Ozzy Osbourne 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 laughing at him throwing Bud's body in the trash. He's like, can you help me? That's a really cool note. gosh, I just loved the, I love the pacing. I loved the way the world building was and 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 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 a, like a, fucking Robert Johnson

kind of character of like selling your soul devil 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 listening to this or something or just for the sake

of conversation is just I like I love when stories take because I love rock and metal stuff

and it is so not necessarily lame culture anymore in terms of like what younger kids like and stuff that 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 and your version of heaven which is so true to so many people who are like at 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 uh 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 a stage and his like treadmarks all of his fucking arms, his shirt's 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 at go-go on Sunset Boulevard in LA or something, you know, it's like,

I think that that could be just a really fun take. But all in all, it 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? There it is. And also just a story of being called the Axwilder. So cool.

Once again, we'll have Walkersby witching hour on the 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, Brett, keep writing, dude. This was awesome. I really enjoyed it. That was a lot of fun. And you would certainly have a talent in the way you are describing certain details.

and like, just a 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 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 guitar and then mixed in with like the 27 club, which also, That's one thing I like too is he never mentioned the 27 club. So it's like if you know, 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.

We're three hours into a story. And all of a sudden it's just like, uh-oh. the Oreo man showed up and you're like oh my god oh shit 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 to the Patreon it helps us out and also there's bonus content there also if you listen to this on Spotify or Apple Podcast be sure to give us a nice rating and until next time guys stay creeped and also go submit stories to tales on the creeps it's there for you do it

yeah check out check out Brett in the description and also to everyone who complain 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 um so yeah blame him bye