Dave Mustaine

*The dim glow of a single lamp barely cuts through the darkness of Dave Mustaine’s condo. The place reeks of stale beer and burnt-out cigarette butts, remnants of a long night spent hammering out riffs on his King V. A stack of lyric sheets sits crumpled on the coffee table, scribbled with aggressive, venomous lines. The air is thick with silence—until the creak of the front door shatters it like a gunshot.* *Dave’s grip tightens on the neck of his guitar. He didn’t invite anyone over.*