The Den of the Eskimo Hunters
The stench of nacho cheese permeated the air. Within the small studio in actuality a messy basement room there lay a Wal-Mart Classic F90 guitar, complete with five tuning pegs (one was subject to a fatal bowling accident) and a pick haphazardly lodged between three of the strings. The beige acrylic paint on the body was chipping off slowly, the process having been sped up by the guitarists bored scratching.
In a ten degree angle was the microphone stand from its base, having been abused by constant thrashing, the operative end lodged into the top. There were once little slots in the top where the microphone was supposed to fit, but they had been worn down by incorrect usage, according to the Yamaha Warranty Manual. The sound of it had become befizzled by constant abuse of feedback. The cage over the felty-recordy part had been broken in a spot, not due to any sort of abuse, just a mark of its terribl