A Mindbending Standards Process

Premise: We need to add an important standard: the definition of the energy released from the fall of one Gibson Les Paul Custom (with Gold plated humbuckers) as being one Gypsy.
Gypsy and I met in Greensboro (neutral ground) to test this out. Yong-mi came over as observer with the SPL meter. We got onto the roof of the city government building that houses TnT (Traffic and Transportation). We flipped a quarter - I lost.

I threw the Strat-clone (the control) first. It tumbled randomly towards the pavement, hitting nearly vertically on the headstock. The noise was truly wonderful to behold, as long as I didn't think about what I had just sacrificed in the name of science.

92db. Not great, but not bad. Yong-mi flashed me the loveliest, most angst-ridden smile. Gypsy confidently pitched the Gibson off (you wouldn't believe what it took to get gypsy to do this). As it flipped end-over-end, humbuckers flashing in the fading, red sunlight, we both froze. Sure enough, with 80 square yards of pavement close enough to hit, the Les Paul went straight for my Hagstrom's neck. It hit just as the last vestige of sunlight disappeared. There was a hideous noise, and a blinding flash. We fell over backwards onto the roof.

After staring at each other a few seconds, we got up and ran down the steps hollering for Yong-Mi. No answer. When we got to the parking lot, there was no sign of Yong-Mi or either guitar. We stared open-mouthed. Had she run off with what was left of the guitars, or what? A sound from the alley beside us caused us to whirl around. A horrible sound not unlike a cheap MPC guitar being played by Karen Carpenter's long-dead fingers assaulted our ears. We froze, the fight-or-flight syndrome having grabbed us both by the scruff of the neck.

Out of the alley danced an apparition straight from my worst nightmares. Gypsy's hiss of pure hate told me I was right. Half Les Paul, half Strat, out walked this thing on Yong-Mi's legs. Her arms grew from it's body and caressed the strings to speak these devastating words.

"Hi, guys! I'm the Mindbender! Wanna hear about my parents?", it chorded gaily at us. There was no need for discusison. We both sprang into action. I hit high, breaking the thing's neck; Gypsy hit low with a body block, knocking the hardwood to splinters against the brick wall. The legs twitched a moment, a faint, flanged moan whispered from the frets, and the night was again quiet, the air still but for our labored breathing.

The legs and arms, all that endured of Yong-Mi, shrivelled away with a ghostly sigh, until nothing remained. Gypsy took the gold-plated humbuckers. I kept the Schaller tuners. The rest we burned, except the Badass bridge, which we flipped for. Gypsy won. Wordlessly, each lost in thought, we headed back towards home. I let the drone of the big V-4 and the wind in my helmet drive all thought from my brain. I made it home on autopilot, let the bike fall over in the driveway, and crashed in the jonquils, hoping I wouldn't dream.

No such luck.

Based on an idea in t.b by Kevin Carothers.

Last updated: 2 Apr 1994

Copyright 1990, 1994 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

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