Silver Sahara

Chapter 12: Guitarist Blues

"Make a deal with a devil; he'll give back thrice. But hey, that's not my advice." The stern melody dances outward from a bar just on the outskirts of New Marrakesh. Played with an acoustic guitar in an old-world rock style meshed with the hyperactive appeal of the time, bargoers listened attentively.

"Give him a hand, and he'll give ya two. Oh, but all the good and bad you'll do." Above the shabby, low-bearing doors is a gritty, barely functional neon sign reading "Moonie's" in bright, fluctuating purple. Pushing aside the rough plastic doors the enclosed cigar smoke and old cigarette smell flee from the poorly ventilated room as if the vapor were suffocating within its own wretched odor.

"The devil says, 'Hey, hey, hey, you lookin for a pass? Just send my brass! To those next to you.' Shake his hand and go on as you do! Start running fast, cause once you're due, you ain't gettin to another class." The patrons watch with coal-struck eyes as the young, amber-haired singer performs. Each member drinks cheap gin, whiskey, and rum accompanied by a taste dropper to make the putrid liquor taste like salted water.

"Make a deal with a devil; he'll give back thrice. But hey, that's not my advice." The guitarist repeats the lyrics while changing his strum pattern. His green polymer French-issued arm slightly creeks with each movement of his fingers. If it weren't for the checkered suit jacket he wore, observers would notice the copious amounts of black rust caused by unchanged biofluid.

Quickly wrapping up his performance, he thanks the people fighting the day's fatigue to watch him play. An cumbersome automaton with tube-like arms hands him sullied rainwater collected from yesterday's weather. The almost clear liquid had flakes of silicon rubbed off from tiling due to the high winds. He cheers the machine and drinks. The starch dry flavor elicited no reaction, it was free and would give him at least some sustenance. Debt loomed over him like an approaching wave. Yet on the stage, he felt only bliss. The robotic run business and its poor water were akin to wine of an inner city club. Like a drug, he traveled back just about every night. Moonie's was a very accommodating bar despite being small, remote, and poorly maintained. Its greatest advantage came not from the cheap liquor, cigars, or joytoys but from its proximity to a fuel station just beside the southern entrance of New Marrakesh. It is remote and commonly described as a "backwater." A prime place to elude hunting loan sharks.

Walking through the bar towards the doors on the other end, he keenly watches one promotion that fluorescently depicted New Marrakesh's grand theater of arts; it was his dream ever since coming to the frontier. In his eagerness to watch, he often crashed into tables or people obstructing his path. The few theaters and performing centers within the city all required a sponsor to perform, so the guitarist (lacking such things) was barred no matter how much he pined for such places.

"Hey mama. Just callin' as I'm partial to doin." The guitarist leaves Moonie's into the desolate streets leading into New Marrakesh. Just down the way is a guarded gate by cyan-colored soldiers accompanied by heavy duty turrets that trace every person approaching the checkpoint two miles out.

"I tried calling Mark again. He's still not talking to me, livin' the lunar life, I suppose." The guitarist cleared his throat while somberly walking, his expression was questioning as if wondering why he was even calling. "I performed again and the crowd liked it... Well, they either like me or the copious amount of depressants in Moonie's liquor." He chuckles. "I know if you could talk right now, you'd give me the talk you gave Papa... Just think about it this way: you have Mark achieving greatness the 'professional way;' it's like throwing darts. He landed a hit. I'm still takin' aim for the board." He nervously smiles. The empty response suffocates him in shame; he intently listens to the gravel crackling beneath his heavy boots.

"ID sir." The guard yawns. The guitarist closes one eye and allows the guard to scan his eye. While the guard registered the information, two turrets aimed for the central mass of his torso. "You're good to go, mate." The guard nods while the gate opens behind him.