Axe grinding

Flooding through the minds of the assembled throng, the guitar took wings and circled above the heads of the crowd before devastating them with an explosion of thunderous axemanship.
Sweat from the guitarist, sweat from the crowd, sweat from the instrument itself - an intense workout for the mind - expanded by this aural tribute to all senses. Except none of it was real.
It had all been recorded onto a mini-disc and primed to play perfectly along in time with a backing track coming through a midi-sequencer. The guitar volume was set so low, no-one could really hear what was coming out of it. He could widdle around on that thing for hours and nobody would notice it wasn’t him playing it - they were out of their minds, living for the moment, thrashing into the dawn.
But Lydia saw what was going on. She had a guitar and it didn’t make these kind of noises when you did what this guy was doing. If you put your hand in the air, it didn’t usually play by itself.
So Lydia strode through the crowd and asked the guy just what he was doing, she demanded vehemently to hear what he could really do.
At first, Mr Geetar just laughed and carried on with the business of entertainment - he had a job to do, after all. But when the girl didn’t go away and began screaming loudly in his direction he did what he felt he had to do and asked her if she wouldn’t mind fucking off.
At this the girl climbed on stage and disconnected the lead running from the guitar to the amp. There was no audible difference in the song and the stunned band gamely played on. The audience cheered the stage invader but cared nothing for the unveiling of the guitar fraudster.
Turning to bask in the warm glow of her victory and seeing that the band still had the upper hand in this battle of wits, she shoved the guitarist out of the way and shouted into his mic: “He’s not really playing! This is all fake! You are being lied to.”
At this the audience laughed and cheered and danced all the more. The lead singer gave the guitarist the kind of look that tells you to do something about the goddamned mad bitch on the stage. The axe man responded by pushing said girl off the stage so that she fell forward onto all fours.
She turned back from this indignity, like a penitent puppy, and knelt before the treacherous guitarist. She watched as he twirled the volume knob on the body of his instrument and pushed it to the limit. Her eyes widened as the unknown maestro unleashed a face peeling solo inches from her prostrate position.
When he’d shown her the true extent of his powers she found that she was weeping bitterly into the beer drenched floor.
Everyone else was having a great time. She realised she may have had a little too much to drink. It was time to go home.