"Hey, brother, still got those Nitro records in back?" Came the familiar gruff, deep country voice approaching the counter. The first thing most saw when they looked at Eddie Muldoon were shirt buttons (In this case attatched to a cheap white/blue plaid flannel piece, sleeves rolled up the forearms to expose a few Christian tattoos) or the leather vest or jacket covered in biker club and band patches. Then, apon looking upward several inches, would come the friendly, if a bit imposing, moustaced face, usualy set into a polite smile as he addressed his audience. Today was no exception, though now he was holding a rather large stack of records tucked under one arm. Black Sabbath, Lion, Motley Crue, and Motorhead in that order from top to bottom. He'd been looking all over the local stores for these to rebuild his old collection after his last old lady had turned....sour.

Eddie'd known Mat for a few months now. He was a nice enough kid, even if they didn't speak much aside from Eddie's weekly stop into the store or when they bumped into eachother in the hallway. He was pretty sure he didn't even know Mat's last name, which was more than he could say about the Rasta-New-Age-Hippy-looking kid, whom he'd seen once or twice in the building, but never actually spoken to.

"Hard as hell to find the classics now. Guess the Gen Xers got tired of whatever the hell they're callin' metal now, goin' back to the old stuff."