Tommy “Gears” Marconi lurked in the shadows of Bleecker and Sullivan like a musical predator, his cardboard box of sketchy electronics emanating a faint smell of burnt circuits and broken dreams. His greasy ponytail was held together with a guitar string, and he had a nervous twitch that made his left eye wink involuntarily at potential marks.
“Psst, hey there, sweet cheeks,” he hissed at a passing guitarist, emerging from behind a dumpster like a diseased goblin. “You look like someone who appreciates the… finer things. The forbidden tones. The pedals your mama warned you about.”
The musician crossed the street.
“YOUR LOSS!” Tommy shouted, then whispered conspiratorially to a fire hydrant. “These squares don’t know quality when they hear it buzzing and sparking.”
A teenager with a bass guitar made the mistake of slowing down.
Tommy pounced. “Kid! KID! You got that innocent, clean bass sound, don’t you? Boring your audience to tears? Well, step into Uncle Tommy’s sonic pharmacy!” He pulled out a pedal covered in suspicious stains. “This is a genuine Russian distortion box. Radioactive! Gives your bass that Chernobyl growl! Side effects may include: tinnitus, night terrors, and the ability to communicate with household appliances!”
“Is it… safe?”
“Safe? SAFE? Music isn’t supposed to be safe! This pedal doesn’t just change your tone—it changes your DNA! Your children will thank you! Well, if they’re born with the right number of fingers…”
The kid sprinted away.
Tommy called after him: “I TAKE FOOD STAMPS!”
A street mime approached, looking curious.
“Ah, a fellow artist!” Tommy’s eye twitched faster. “Silent type, eh? I got just the thing—a noise gate so aggressive it’ll silence your screams! Perfect for your… artistic expression. Or lack thereof.”
The mime pretended to be trapped in a box and walked away.
“EVEN THE IMAGINARY BOXES REJECT ME!” Tommy wailed to the sky.
A businesswoman tried to sneak past with earbuds in.
“CORPORATE LADY! Those tiny speakers are INSULTING your ears! I got a vintage ring modulator here that’ll make your conference calls sound like alien death rays! Your boss will promote you out of fear!”
She quickened her pace.
Tommy slumped against a lamppost, muttering: “Twenty years selling guitar pedals, and what do I have to show for it? A cardboard box, a criminal record, and a restraining order from Guitar Center…”
Suddenly, a large seagull landed on his milk crate and let out a harsh “SQUAAAAWK!”
Tommy’s eyes lit up with manic hope. He pulled out a small, corroded pedal and held it up reverently.
“Well, well, well… finally, a customer with taste! You, my feathered friend, have come to the right place. This here is a genuine analog squawk box—adds that vintage seagull distortion you’ve been missing! Makes every call for fish scraps sound like a pterodactyl’s death cry!”
The seagull cocked its head, intrigued.
“That’s right, baby—no more weak, natural squawking for you! This little beauty will add sustain, reverb, and just a touch of madness to every screech! Your flock will worship you! The pigeons will flee in terror!”
The seagull grabbed the pedal in its beak and flew away.
“WAIT! YOU DIDN’T PAY!” Tommy shouted, then paused thoughtfully. “Although… that’s the first satisfied customer I’ve had all year.”
He settled back onto his crate, clicking his tongue in a broken 7/8 time signature.
“Note to self: expand to the animal market…”
