The sledgehammer, its head as big as a phone booth, swung in a wide arc out of the light of the late-day sun and punched Codpiece dead in the chest. He felt his breastbone shudder and crackle, and before he knew what was happening, his lion-faced horse—the mighty Humbaba—kept on galloping and spitting fire as he dropped to the asphalt in the middle of a suburban cul-de-sac.
“You don’t—it doesn’t—you don’t get it. You’re a little dummy is what you are. It doesn’t shoot guitars like that. It uses guitars as its bullets. Little guitars. Razor-honed. Chop a dude’s head off lickety-split. Rock chord as it does it.” He grabbed the pump action in his beefy paw and jacked a guitar-shell into the breach with a clackety-chak and a strummed rockabilly twang.
“It’s loose,” Jack tells you. “What’s loose?” “You need to see,” he says, drawing a deep breath. “You need to see.” So you go. Long winding driveway. Moon overhead pregnant with doom. Gravel crunching under tires. The radio comes alive — fuzz, static, a dread frequency, a girl reading numbers in German (zwei, acht, neun, […]