Jonny D wants new strings but gets spannered

The thick stench of engine oil and rust greeted Jonny D as he stepped into the warehouse he was looking for, a cavernous expanse buried deep in the labyrinth of East End’s backstreets. The flickering neon sign outside read “Spanner’s Car Workshop” as it cast long, jittery shadows over the abandoned vehicles, the skeletons of a bygone era when cars ran on petrol and not on whatever government-issued sludge had replaced it.

Jonny D hesitated at the entrance, running a hand through his messy hair under his hat. The place was a graveyard of scrap metal, where forgotten cars came to die and, occasionally, be reborn into something useful. Useful, like the guitar strings Sid Spanner crafted from old wheels and bumpers. Jonny needed those strings like a fish needed water—his last set had snapped during a particularly intense solo at last night’s secret gig. Without strings, he was just another starving artist in a city where music had been declared illegal.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the cocktail of grease and mildew, and ventured deeper into the cavernous space. The low hum of machinery mixed with the sound of clattering tools, and from the shadows emerged the figure of Sid Spanner, hunched over a rusty carburettor.

Sid didn’t look up as Jonny approached. The small, tubby man was a familiar sight in his oil-stained blue overalls, the two pairs of glasses perched on his nose like a peculiar set of goggles. The first pair magnified his eyes to an alarming degree; the second pair was used for finer work, slipped down his nose as if threatening to fall at any moment.

Jonny cleared his throat. “Hey, Sid.”

Sid grunted in response, still focused on his task. His hands, small and grease-slicked, moved with the precision of a surgeon. Jonny waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Patience was essential when dealing with Sid, and Jonny wasn’t in any hurry to provoke the mechanic’s infamous temper.

Finally, Sid looked up, pushing both sets of glasses onto his forehead. “You’re late, Jonny D. Thought you’d given up on music like the rest of the cowards.”

Jonny shook his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “Strings snapped. Need a new set.”

Sid’s beady eyes narrowed. “Strings don’t just snap on their own. How rough were you with them?”

“Rough enough to keep a crowd of ninety from walking out on us.”

Sid let out a low chuckle, a sound like gravel being ground underfoot. “Ninety? That’s practically a festival these days.”

“Yeah, well, they came for the music. I aim to give it to them,” Jonny said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Every note played in defiance of the Gov-Fed’s music ban was a risk, but it was also a necessity. Music was resistance, and Jonny’s guitar was his weapon.

Sid wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against a stack of tire rims. “I’ve got what you need. Custom job, best I’ve made in months. But it’s gonna cost you.”

Jonny’s heart sank. Sid was known for his craftsmanship, but he was also known for his exorbitant prices. “How much?”

Sid tilted his head, as if sizing Jonny up. “For you, I’m feeling generous. Fifty.”

“Fifty!” Jonny sputtered, his voice louder than he intended. “That’s robbery, Sid!”

“Supply and demand, mate,” Sid said with a shrug. “You want strings that’ll hold up during one of your fancy solos, you pay the price.”

Jonny dug into his pocket, counting the crumpled notes and small change he had. “I’ve got thirty. That’s all I’ve got.”

Sid’s lips curled into a sly grin. “Thirty, huh? Let’s see if you can negotiate better than you play.”

Before Jonny could respond, a small blur of white and brown fur darted out from beneath a pile of old fenders. Midget, Sid’s ever-loyal Jack Russell, scampered over, teeth bared in what could only be described as a canine sneer. The dog was all muscle and no fluff, a tiny ball of energy that struck fear into even the most hardened customers.

Midget growled low in his throat, inching closer to Jonny’s ankle. Sid watched the scene with mild amusement, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fifty and a little extra persuasion from Midget here… or no strings.”

Jonny felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. He’d faced hostile crowds, evaded Gov-Fed patrols, and played until his fingers bled, but Sid Spanner’s dog… that was a different kind of terror.

“I’m good for the rest,” Jonny said quickly, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “You know I am. Last Ghosts have another gig lined up next week. I’ll come back with the rest.”

Sid shook his head slowly. “That’s what the last bloke said. You know what happened to him?”

Jonny didn’t want to know, but Sid leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Midget got a hold of his trousers. The rest, well, let’s just say he had to walk home in his skivvies.”

The image was enough to make Jonny wince. He glanced down at Midget, who was now gnashing his teeth in anticipation. Thirty might not have been enough, but Jonny wasn’t ready to part with his trousers—or anything else Midget might fancy a bite of.

“Fine,” Jonny said, the word coming out in a rush. “I’ll pay forty. Just—” He fished out the remaining coins from his pocket, barely enough to scrape by until their next gig. “Just give me the strings.”

Sid took the money with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Smart lad. Always pay upfront. Keeps the dog from getting too attached, you know?”

Jonny swallowed hard as Sid turned to a battered toolbox and rummaged around, finally pulling out a set of strings coiled neatly in a greasy cloth. He handed them to Jonny with a flourish, as if presenting a royal gift.

“Here you go. Best strings in all of London. Might even say they’re Gov-Fed proof.”

Jonny took them gingerly, feeling the weight of every last note he’d just spent. But as his fingers closed around the strings, something shifted inside him. The anxiety, the doubt that had plagued him since the moment he stepped into the warehouse, began to fade. Sid’s strings were good—too good for a hack. And Jonny D wasn’t a hack, not anymore.

“Thanks, Sid,” he said, meeting the mechanic’s gaze. “You’ll get the rest. Promise.”

Sid waved him off, already returning to his carburettor. “You better. Midget likes the taste of rock stars.”

Jonny managed a weak smile and backed out of the warehouse, Midget’s eyes following his every step. As he emerged into the dull grey light of East End’s streets, the cold air hit him like a splash of water, snapping him back to reality.

He had the strings. Last Ghosts would play again. And maybe, just maybe, they’d survive long enough to make sure the city didn’t forget what real music sounded like.

Jonny D glanced back at the flickering sign above Spanner’s Car Workshop and chuckled to himself. Sid Spanner was a tyrant and a crook, but he was also the best damn craftsman in London. And in a world that had lost its rhythm, that counted for something.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Jonny D pocketed the strings and headed for home. There was music to be made, and as long as he had strings to play, Gov-Fed’s ban could go to hell.