Dave Bricker

Born during the mid-Cretaceous era at the height of the war, I fled under cover of darkness secreted away inside the scroll of an old Gibson mandocello. Biding my time, I subsisted on an ancient celluloid plectrum that had fortuitously lodged between the top and a loose brace until circumstances (my passport was about to expire) forced me to reveal myself. Though my plaid overalls raised a few eyebrows, I sauntered across the room with a bearing of intent and dignity, smiling, passing myself off successfully as simply another of the Baron's eccentric guests. Grabbing a rather watery mimosa off the waiter's passing tray for additional cover, I slipped onto a deserted balcony, stole down the rain gutter and hastened over the wall. Having seized my liberty once again, I carefully exhumed the old soldering iron I had hidden away so many years before. "Show time!"