Soul Music

teeth, a box of chocolates, and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon in the battle of the sexes. They didn’t play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.
    Blert thought he’d seen them all.
    Mind you, first thing this morning he’d sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert’s guitar primer.
    The bell rang.
    “Yes”—Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort—“sir?”
    It wasn’t just the leather jerkin. It wasn’t just the wristbands with studs. It wasn’t just the broadsword. It wasn’t just the helmet with the spikes. It was the leather and the studs and the sword and the helmet. This customer couldn’t possibly be in categories one or two, Blert decided.
    The figure stood looking uncertain, hands gripping convulsively, clearly not at home in a dialogue situation.
    “This a guitar shop?” it said.
    Blert looked around at the merchandise hanging from walls and ceiling.
    “Er, yes?” he said.
    “I wants one.”
    As for category three, he didn’t look like someone used to bothering with chocolates or roses. Or even “hello.”
    “Er…” Blurt grabbed one at random and held it out in front of him. “One like this?”
    “I wants one that goes blam-Blam-blamma-BLAM-blammmm-oooiiieeee . Y’know?”
    Blert looked down at the guitar. “I’m not sure it does that,” he said.
    Two enormous black-nailed hands took it out of his grasp.
    “Er, you’re holding it wro—”
    “Got a mirror?”
    “Er, no—”
    One hairy hand was raised high in the air, and then plunged toward the strings.
    Blert never wanted to repeat the next ten seconds. People shouldn’t be allowed to do that sort of thing to a defenseless musical instrument. It was like raising a little pony, feeding it and grooming it properly, plaiting ribbons in its tail. giving it a nice field with bunnies and daisies in it, and then watching the first rider take it out with spurs and a whip.
    The thug played as if he were searching for something. He didn’t find it, but as the last discords faded away his features twisted into the determined expression of one who intends to go on looking.
    “Yer, right. How much?” he said.
    It was on sale for fifteen dollars. But Blert’s musical soul rebelled. He snapped.
    “Twenty-five dollars,” was what he snapped.
    “Yer, right. Will this be enough, then?”
    A small ruby was produced from somewhere in a pocket.
    “I can’t change that!”
    Blert’s musical soul was still protesting, but his business head stepped in and flexed its elbows.
    “But, but, but I’ll throw in my guitar primer and a strap and a couple of pleckies, yes?” he said. “It’s got pictures of where to put your fingers and everything, yes?”
    “Yer, right.”
    The barbarian walked out. Blert stared at the gem in his hand.
    The bell rang. He looked up.
    This one wasn’t quite so bad. There were fewer studs, and the helmet had only two spikes.
    Blert’s hand shut around the jewel.
    “Don’t tell me you want a guitar?” he said.
    “Yep. One of them that goes whoweeeooowweeee-oowwww-ngngngng .”
    Blert looked around wildly.
    “Well, there’s this one,” he said, grabbing the nearest instrument. “I don’t know about wooeeeoowweee but here’s my primer as well and a strap and some pleckies, that’ll be thirty dollars and I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll throw in the space between the strings for free, okay?”
    “Yep. Er. Got a mirror?”
    The bell rang.
    And rang.
    An hour later Blert leaned on the doorframe of his workshop, a manic grin on his face and his hands on his belt to stop the weight of money in his pockets pulling his trousers down.
    “Gibbsson?”
    “Yes, boss?”
    “You know those guitars you made? When you were learning?”
    “The ones you said sounded like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum, boss?”
    “Did you throw them away?”
    “No, boss. I thought: I’ll keep them, so’s in five years’ time, when I can make proper instruments, I’ll be able to take ’em out and have a good laugh.”
    Blert wiped his forehead. Several small gold coins fell out with his handkerchief.
    “Where did you put them, out of interest?”
    “Chucked ’em inna shed, boss. Along with that whaney timber you said was about as