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Description
Jeremy White was thinking bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts. In fact, he had the intention to kill. Plastered to his vision was the young woman's face, with all of it's sinister features. Oh, how he wanted to make it bleed.

She had stolen his guitar. She had stolen his soul. That guitar meant more to him than anybody he knew. Certainly more than an upstart little girl he met in a bar.

He thought on his guitar. He thought on it's wondrous beauty that seemed to still last despite the years. The gold pegs faded a brassy silver, the midnight blue sunburst with the dark brown of the real wood starting to show under it. The flame inlay made of pearl burning it's trail up the neck. It was certainly more worn than it used to be, but it's beauty still rivaled the more expensive guitars of the modern day.

Of course, the beauty was not why he'd loved it.

When he was a young boy, his father had died. Cliché would have it that the guitar was his fathers. It wasn't. He had bought it with the little money his dad had left him. To follow the cliché though, the money was all his father had given him.
He had other relatives he lived with, and grew attached to. But a few years later a plague had swept through his home country, killing them off. By this time he was old enough to fend for himself. He grabbed his guitar and took the next train out of town, paying his fare by the tips he made from his bluesy music. Rock, rhythm, and blues had almost disappeared off the airwaves, and to many he was a brand new sound. His popularity grew.

Soon his music was cycled on station after station, and played on jukeboxes across the world. He was given the nickname Jukebox Jeremy and, unlike his childhood, he was never alone. Also unlike his childhood, none of them were ever truly loyal and true. He grew to despise everybody, and trust no one and nothing.

Except his guitar.

His popularity lasted a fair while, but almost as quickly as he rose up, his music died out. Now no one but the most die-hard fans had his records. The last juke joint he knew of that played his songs had expelled him.

He wandered the world still. He made enough to get by, and learned to trust people again, to an extent. But still the only thing he loved was his guitar. It had been with him from his first bar fight through his last girlfriend, never once leaving his side.

And now it was gone. And he was going to kill the woman that took it.

Jeremy stopped in front of a pawn shop, eyeing all the beautiful tools people had created for the sole purpose of killing. One man's trash...

He didn't bother to complete the phrase, instead allowing a maniacal grin to cross his face. There was little doubt that Jeremy White had been pushed past the edge.

He strolled into the pawnshop nonchalantly, and the weaselly man behind the counter asked what he could do for Jeremy.

Jeremy told him to go open the case at the front with all the handguns. Meanwhile he scanned the wall at a small assortment of rifles the pawnshop had.
You know this must be a bad neighborhood...

Suddenly, his vision was arrested. There, on the wall, between some old fashioned pistol and half of a cabinet that some person had just had to have, and another just had to destroy, was his guitar.

When the counter man came back, Jeremy grabbed a hold of him, and pointing at the guitar yelled "WHO SOLD YOU THAT?!?!"

"Some dark man in a trench coat," the counter man stammered.

Still infuriated beyond control, Jeremy pulled his knife and embedded it deep into the man. He grabbed his guitar off the shelf, and left.

I guess she really didn't do it...

Description
Jeremy White was thinking bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts. In fact, he had the intention to kill. Plastered to his vision was the young woman's face, with all of it's sinister features. Oh, how he wanted to make it bleed.

She had stolen his guitar. She had stolen his soul. That guitar meant more to him than anybody he knew. Certainly more than an upstart little girl he met in a bar.

He thought on his guitar. He thought on it's wondrous beauty that seemed to still last despite the years. The gold pegs faded a brassy silver, the midnight blue sunburst with the dark brown of the real wood starting to show under it. The flame inlay made of pearl burning it's trail up the neck. It was certainly more worn than it used to be, but it's beauty still rivaled the more expensive guitars of the modern day.

Of course, the beauty was not why he'd loved it.

When he was a young boy, his father had died. Cliché would have it that the guitar was his fathers. It wasn't. He had bought it with the little money his dad had left him. To follow the cliché though, the money was all his father had given him.
He had other relatives he lived with, and grew attached to. But a few years later a plague had swept through his home country, killing them off. By this time he was old enough to fend for himself. He grabbed his guitar and took the next train out of town, paying his fare by the tips he made from his bluesy music. Rock, rhythm, and blues had almost disappeared off the airwaves, and to many he was a brand new sound. His popularity grew.

Soon his music was cycled on station after station, and played on jukeboxes across the world. He was given the nickname Jukebox Jeremy and, unlike his childhood, he was never alone. Also unlike his childhood, none of them were ever truly loyal and true. He grew to despise everybody, and trust no one and nothing.

Except his guitar.

His popularity lasted a fair while, but almost as quickly as he rose up, his music died out. Now no one but the most die-hard fans had his records. The last juke joint he knew of that played his songs had expelled him.

He wandered the world still. He made enough to get by, and learned to trust people again, to an extent. But still the only thing he loved was his guitar. It had been with him from his first bar fight through his last girlfriend, never once leaving his side.

And now it was gone. And he was going to kill the woman that took it.

Jeremy stopped in front of a pawn shop, eyeing all the beautiful tools people had created for the sole purpose of killing. One man's trash...

He didn't bother to complete the phrase, instead allowing a maniacal grin to cross his face. There was little doubt that Jeremy White had been pushed past the edge.

He strolled into the pawnshop nonchalantly, and the weaselly man behind the counter asked what he could do for Jeremy.

Jeremy told him to go open the case at the front with all the handguns. Meanwhile he scanned the wall at a small assortment of rifles the pawnshop had.
You know this must be a bad neighborhood...

Suddenly, his vision was arrested. There, on the wall, between some old fashioned pistol and half of a cabinet that some person had just had to have, and another just had to destroy, was his guitar.

When the counter man came back, Jeremy grabbed a hold of him, and pointing at the guitar yelled "WHO SOLD YOU THAT?!?!"

"Some dark man in a trench coat," the counter man stammered.

Still infuriated beyond control, Jeremy pulled his knife and embedded it deep into the man. He grabbed his guitar off the shelf, and left.

I guess she really didn't do it...