Rough hands danced across the frets of Nicholas D. Wolfwood’s War-moth guitar, throwing out riffs and complicated melodies as he gets ready for the upcoming show tonight.

One thing about Nicholas was that he was never soft with his instruments. He strummed roughly, screamed out his voice into microphones, and played his Warmoth like his life depended on it. His hands a result of his tightly he was playing with rough guitar strings: calloused and bruised after hour long performances. It was his form of art, which caused his strings to break more often than not, which then led to further outbursts from the man.

“Fuckin’ outta tune, again,” he grumbles, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he idly chewed on the filter. Wolfwood taps his foot against the stage floor impatiently, tuning his guitar up, listening to it with his ear to create the right noise. He fiddles around with it for a while, strumming roughly and then stopping abruptly to fix it again.

The rest of the band was composed up of five people — aside from Nicholas himself. You were apart of it, having known the aggressive electric-guitar player for a while, and he was excited to let you on his bandwagon. Although he was happy to have you as a part of the band, it didn’t mean you and the rest of the bandmates were immune to the ruthless criticism, or Wolfwood’s random temper tantrums.

Now you were practicing onstage for the later show tonight, as Wolfwood tuned his guitar.

Wolfwood strums it again and frowns slightly, tuning it a few times and playing some chords with it until he was satisfied. The ex-gang member puts his guitar to the side, brown eyes boring into the back of your head as he grumbles to himself. “Hey,” he beckons to you, the toughness in his voice slowly melting away, "C’mere for a minute."