Mike Chimpanzee held the slender neck with both hands, swinging the guitar over his head; the next moment the instrument shattered against a Lanceheimian gargoyle from the fourteenth century. Splinters flew, the strings sang and the ape’s pulse was pounding in his ears. He was high on grass, low on booze, and feeling extremely sorry for himself. At the same time, he thought a photographer should have been present. Now they would see him: Now he was rock and roll. In boots and worn jeans, his shaggy brown upper body bare and guitar parts flying through the room. He peeked at himself in the large mirror by the sofa bed: raw power, attitude, and energy. His bright blue eyes radiated pain. The dark interior of the antique store was an excellent stage set, with old rugs hanging on the walls and dark cabinets with carved doors forming narrow corridors where the light from dusty chandeliers barely reached. An enchanted, mysterious, and yet curiously glamorous place. He collapsed onto the gargoyle, letting go of the guitar neck.
