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The clink of dishes and the low hum of the refrigerator welcomed James into the small, sunlit kitchen. The old linoleum tiles felt cool under his bare feet. Everything around him was still foreign—but familiar.
David Hetfield sat at the table, eating Corn Flakes straight from the box with a spoon and drinking milk from a glass. "Morning, space cadet," he said without looking up.
"Morning," James muttered, rubbing his temples. The voice coming out of his own mouth still threw him off.
David finally looked up. "You look like you saw a ghost."
James didn't answer. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Coke, and leaned against the counter.
"You jamming today?" David asked.
James nodded. "Leather Charm's meeting in Jim's garage."
David snorted. "Still doing all the covers?"
James hesitated. "Maybe not for long."
That got a glance. David didn't press him, just gave a slow nod and went back to his cereal. "Make it count."
---
The summer heat hit James like a slap when he stepped outside. His old Flying V hung from his shoulder in its case. The air smelled of grass, warm tar, and possibility.
He walked a few blocks to Jim Mulligan's house, where the garage was already half open. Inside were three guys sweating in the California sun, tuning cheap gear and sipping warm soda.
"Yo, Het!" Jim called out.
"'Bout time," Ron McGovney added, offering a nod. He was the bassist—quiet, dependable, built like a linebacker with surfer hair.
"Alright, let's warm up," Jim said, grabbing his sticks and slamming into Wrathchild by Iron Maiden.
They tore through Maiden, Sabbath, even some Scorpions. The playing was decent—tight enough for a garage band—but James felt restless. The riffs were stale. The future was screaming inside him.
After an hour, they paused. Jim wiped his forehead with a rag.
James leaned on his amp. "Hey… you guys ever think of writing something original?"
The garage went quiet.
Jim looked at him like he'd asked to launch a rocket.
Ron glanced over, curious but cautious.
"What for?" Jim shrugged. "Nobody wants our stuff. People come for the classics."
"Yeah," the drummer added. "You think we're freakin' Zeppelin or something?"
James's jaw tightened. "I'm serious. We've got the chops. Why waste it on playing someone else's songs forever?"
Jim scoffed. "C'mon, man. Chill. This isn't high school talent show. We're not changing the world."
That hit something deep.
James stood up straight. "Maybe I want to."
The silence stretched, heavier than any riff.
Jim laughed and shook his head. "Dude, get real. You wanna be some kind of rock messiah or something?"
Ron looked from James to Jim. "Let him try. Doesn't hurt."
"Sure it does," Jim snapped. "It hurts the band. We've got a good thing going. Don't screw it up."
James stared at the floor for a long second. Then he reached down, unplugged his guitar, and slung the strap over his shoulder.
Ron looked surprised. "You leaving?"
"Yeah," James said quietly. "I've got a different idea."
He turned toward the door.
Ron hesitated, then set down his bass and followed.
Behind them, Jim scoffed. "Good luck with that messiah act."
---
Ron and James sat on the steps outside Ron's place, sipping water from the hose and cooling off in the shade.
"You serious about writing our own stuff?" Ron finally asked.
James nodded. "More serious than I've ever been."
Ron scratched the back of his neck. "You got anything written?"
James stood, walked to the garage, and plugged in his Flying V. He closed his eyes.
His fingers moved without hesitation.
DUH-DUH duhduh-DUHDUH DUHDUH-DUHDUH...
The opening riff of Hit the Lights screamed to life, raw and unpolished but unmistakable.
Ron's eyes widened. "Holy shit. What is that?"
James stopped, letting the chord hang in the air.
"Something new," he said.
Ron stood, grabbed his bass. "You got more?"
"Enough to start something real."
They stood in the garage, sweat-drenched and grinning like madmen.
The past was burning behind them.
The future was about to ignite.
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