fandomtownies | Groovy Tunes; Thursday [12/05].

It was the first Thursday of the month, and, according to the grand schemes of previous months' Stewart, that meant it was time for another Open Mic Night at Groovy Tunes. He had almost thought about canceling, though; he'd been in sort of a funk this week and had only ~~oh so handwavily~~ somewhat unenthusiastically went around putting up flyers earlier this week to remind everyone, in case they forgot or just didn't care. Because he knew that if he did cancel this month, out of apathy or ennui or just general holiday blues, then it would be difficult to get himself to get it started again next month, and then the whole thing would fizzle before it even really got off the ground.

And people actually had shown up last month.

And if people didn't show up this month, he could just tell himself it was because everyone was busy with holiday bullshit.

So there really was no reason not to hold it this month, and so he was there at the shop getting it ready and dealing with customers in the day before setting things up on the stage for the performances that evening.

Groovy Tunes is open!

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Stewart's head popped up from behind a nearby shelf, to look at the actual person who had actually come into the shop and squint at him a little.

"In a cultural landscape," he stated, "of a staggering depletion of the existence of physical media, this place is a veritable shrine to the increasingly obsolete and antiquated. Change would be antithetical to its entire business model."

"Sure," Dante said, waving all those big words away with a single idle gesture. "You in charge here?"

Chin lifted, Stewart took a long pause to eye the other man a little further, suspiciously taking the measure of him.

"Depends," he eventually, perhaps predictably, said, "on who's asking."

Which, to be fair, he had procured his ownership of this place on the ^{~*dArk WeB*~}, and he did have his greasy fingers in a few....legally questionable activities, so it was not just him being dramatic, it was a very necessary inquiry.

That had the added benefit of also being dramatic.

"Dante," Dante said, flashing a bright smile in his general direction. "Former employee. I got zapped into town yesterday, figured I'd hit up all the old hits."

There was another moment of evaluation before that answer seemed to pass enough muster for a response.

"Stewart," he offered back. "And, yes, I would be the current de facto manager of this modern mausoleum of musical memories."

Over the shelf, Stewart's head stunned as his feet beneath his crossed to pull him into a spin, and he stalked around the shelf to emerge on the other side with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

"Welcome back to the old stomping grounds....apparently."

"Didn't do a lot of stomping. Bad for the vinyl," Dante said. He parked one shoulder against a shelf, as if to make up for Stewart's abandonment of his own shelf, and shrugged the other one. "Did do some lounging, listening, and a little plucking."

This seemed to add more data and calculations to Stewart's continued evaluation of this Dante fellow, which seemed to just lead him to one question.

"Do you still..." There was a pause, to lift his eyebrows and put a particular provocative pop to the end of the word, "...pluck?"

"Sure, sometimes," Dante said. "Not much of the old band left around here, though."

And his primary guitar was technically a demon who shot thunder and electric bats, so...

Edited 2024-12-05 12:52 (UTC)

There was a faint twitch in the corner of Stewart's mouth, a small flash of disappointment for such a dreadfully straight answer, but, none the less, he pulled away, in a Gene Kelly-style slide, complete with stretched arms and tilted torso, toward the counter, where he did another spin while swiping off a flyer from the small stack that hadn't gone out .

"Then perhaps," he said, with a little additional fancy footwork to bring him back over to Dante to offer out the flyer, "you should join us tonight. We're doing an open mic night. All pluckers welcome."

Dante was only your go-to for bad puns, swear words and short sentences, alas. (Straightness, not so much, but he wasn't going to fault Stewart for that poor choice of words.)

He leaned forward to snag the flyer, giving it a brief look-over. "Can I borrow a guitar?" he asked. "Because the one I've got is kinda... sparky."

Oh, no. That particular word choice had been very intentional. What did you take him for? Some fair-weather amateur wordsmith?

That faint curl in the corner of Stewart's mouth twitched up approvingly and he nodded, a nod that then turned into a slight bow as his arm making another grand gesture toward the guitars.

"Undoubtedly," he pronounced. "Axe," you were saying, about puns?, "and ye shall receive."

"Nice," Dante whistled, and waved the flyer back at Stewart. "Yeah, I'll jam later."

He pulled away from the shelf, all insouciance, and strode merrily towards the guitars.

It took him all of five seconds to produce the most ridiculously loud classic rock riff you could draw out of a guitar.

Groovy Tunes; Thursday [12/05].

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