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Cobb

Cobb snatches his Strat and dodges behind the old Moog, but Lannet’s not so fast: the white noise knocks him into a stack of amps.

“I wanted an amicable split!” Fitzhugh’s shouting. “You’d still get royalties!”

“I want sheet reprint rights!” Cobb yells back.

“Then you’ll get nothing!” Fitzhugh cuts loose a feedback-heavy C5 into the monitor–or would, if Cobb wasn’t matching it exactly. They cancel.

In the weird silence, Lannet’s bloody hand thrusts out of the amps and grabs his Fender Jazz.

“No!” gasp Cobb and Fitzhugh.

He breaks the knob off at eleven, then pops low E.

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