Author's note: This is just a silly little humor / horror story with some Guitar Hero gameplay elements thrown in. Inspired by the Manowar song with the same name, and some injuries that inevitably happen when dealing with guitars.

- IronForce

There was an air of mystery around the Deep South that Casey Lynch found intriguing. And perhaps just a bit frightening. It was here the blues legend Robert Johnson had allegedly sold his soul to the Devil. And without blues, there wouldn't have been heavy metal either.

From the tour van she had seen the famous Clarksdale crossroads sign. And now she was exploring the city on foot.

Casey liked pawn shops; one could make surprising finds inside, like rare effects pedals. Though she would still usually discard them after using them on a gig or two, and return to just plugging the guitar directly to her trusted Marshall rig.

Crazy Eddie's, the sign above the door said, and Casey headed inside the gloomy-looking little store. A bell rung as the door opened, but the shopkeeper seemed to pay little attention to her.

The musical instruments were in the back. There was a worn Stratocaster Casey noticed immediately, which could have had some interesting story to tell, but right now she was not looking for another guitar. She had enough, and the tour van certainly could not fit any more inside.

But there were accessories, effects pedals, and some parts too.

One thing in particular caught Casey's eye. A Floyd Rose tremolo bridge, curiously discolored. There were brownish-red spots on it. But the metal still appeared to be solid, it had not rusted through.

This reminded her that her current main guitar, a Jackson Soloist SL1, really needed something to be done on it. She had bought it used, and it was possibly the bridge at fault. The notes did not ring out as long as they should have. This one appeared to have the same dimensions as the original bridge, and would fit right in as a replacement.

She picked up the bridge from the shelf, and thought she felt something. Like an electric current passing through her hand? Possibly it was just static. And she had a tendency of being a bit electric.

Casey headed to the counter.

"What can you tell me of this one?" she asked.

The shopkeeper eyed the tremolo bridge for a few seconds and answered in a deep drawl. "One fella dropped it here some weeks ago. Said he wanted nothing more to do with it."

"How much?"

"Fifty bucks."

For just a moment Casey considered. Should she back out? The odd sensation she had felt, and then this explanation, which could be interpreted as ominous. But the bridge was much cheaper than a new one, and who knew, maybe the discolored surface would also color the sound in a pleasing way. After all, she was always searching for ways to expand her sound.

Casey returned to the tour van on the motel's parking lot. The next show would only be tomorrow, and the others were still out exploring the city as well. It would be a perfect moment to try swapping out the bridge right now. Though, to be honest, it had been irresponsible to leave the van unguarded, with all the gear inside. But thankfully it appeared undisturbed.

Casey got the Soloist out from its case, and the necessary tools. As well as a bottle of Jack Daniels to help with the installation. She poured herself a drink, took the initial sip, loosened the strings, then opened the back plate to detach the springs from the original bridge, and finally took it off.

Another sip of the whiskey, and she began putting the pawn shop bridge in. Indeed, it was a perfect fit. It did not take long to have the tremolo springs back and the strings tuned to approximately the right pitch.

Casey strummed the strings a few times. The sound appeared stronger and clearer, and it took longer for the notes to fade out. The effect was more pronounced than she could have expected. Either this bridge was something special, or the original had been truly rotten, diminishing the guitar's worth. But now she needed to plug the guitar in to her battery-powered practice amp, and test the difference properly.

She also needed more of the whiskey.

Amplified, the guitar sounded even better. Casey unleashed a flurry of notes, bending the last one and letting it ring. This was what the SL1 had been crying out for. With its original bridge, it had been just crippled. Now it would certainly be elevated to permanent main guitar status, no questions asked.

She began playing a fast eighth-note rhythm part. That sounded good too, even through the slightly lackluster practice amp: the attack was strong and percussive.

Suddenly Casey felt a sting in her right hand middle finger. One of the strings had made a cut on it as it recoiled from the strum, drawing blood.

A drop of blood fell from her finger on the bridge, and she felt nauseous, like the tour van was spinning. It seemed badly out of place. She would not react like that to a tiny injury –

Then she felt the reality around her vanish and fade into black.