He kept playing, even though his back hurt and his fingers were raw and his hands were freezing up.
Beside him, the dog watched as people streamed by in the street.
“Look at that. Disgraceful. I don’t know why he doesn’t go out and get a real job.”
Sometimes he got money in his cup. Sometimes he got yelled at. He responded to both the same way: with a nod and a smile, and he never stopped.
“Man, dude can play! You’re awesome, man!”
The dog jerked his head up and growled, softly. He strained to relax his eyes, and looked quickly around.
Abruptly he flew into a blistering series of guitar licks, faster and faster, a wall of sound that blasted across the street and washed into the alleyways…
…where Something screamed, and fell back, and did not attack the pedestrian passing by unawares, and skulked, wounded, back into the shadows.
“The nerve! It shouldn’t be allowed. You can’t even walk the streets without running into homeless people and beggars and these so-called musicians everywhere. It’s not safe!”
He kept playing, even though his back hurt and his fingers were raw and his hands were freezing up.