"The South Shall Rise Again" blazed out in blueberry and cherry-red against a rebel flag. Blaze of neon warred against the dark. The sign's bulletproof glass was smeared with spit and beer, old scars of gunfire invisible at night. Every son of the Union only entered after spitting on the gaudy standard. The door opened and closed to allow the smell of fresh beer and food. No mere sawdust on the floor slaughter house; it was one of the best restraints of Lear County. Music of the hills and low lands pasted beyond the walls, dark heart of the rebel bled through every cord. It was a gloomy lullaby to the drug ravaged town, a dirge for the damned. The temptation of the wares inside was quickly smothered beyond the parking lot.

Unlike the rest of the town's buildings, it was the only one in fine condition. Since Prohibition, the General's Shine had sold spirits though their famous liquor's recipe was much older. The bar had weathered the years, and was now neutral territory. When the children of the Blues and Grays need to reach an accord, it was done within the walls of the General's Shine.

Leah's lip curled at the Confederate Flag, but her mother's stomach growled. The General's Shine was treated as hallowed ground, so none wished to be the side to break a truce. It was the safest place in the county. When you ended up in Blackberry Bog, she knew, talking was done. Everyone knew Tracy had crossed the Van Lear family.

"We'll order something," Tracy said, wiped her brow. Leah's mother never stopped sweating, even in the heart of winter, but she was practically soaked now. "He will be coming soon."

"Maybe, I should stay with Dad," she crossed her arms.

"He left," she groused, color high on piggy features. "You'll be fine. No one would dare start a fight inside.

Leah opened her mouth, but the guitar chords cast a spell upon the air. The door opened, and then closed slowly. A thin man played the guitar on stage. She leaned to see his instrument. "I heard he is playing here," she breathed.

Tracy rolled her eyes, "The Van Lear Family got him a job here, while the court case is running its course." She raised her head, sniffed, "I don't care what they found: Ignazio is guilty."

She looked at her mother. After the factory was closed, they had gotten a dead rat in the mail box. "Just because people accuse you of something," she blushed, "it doesn't mean they're guilty."

Tracy turned, "Oh we're going to talk about the drugs they found."

"I'm not on drugs, MOM," she whined. She tugged the band shirt, which featured a Black Metal band. Tracy would spread days, even weeks, on any mistake, which was someone else's blunder.

Her mother stomped inside of the General's Shine, and Leah groaned, fists balled. Under the spell of Iggy's playing, she forgot her mother. Paganini, she marveled, that is the name of his guitar. So many stories circled the town about the guitarist, some old but most fantastical. Did he sell his soul to the Devil? Did he sacrifice children to play like a man possessed? He is innocent, she swore, because they found the real killer. The murder's name slipped her mind, though she had looked up a dozen times. But, after hearing him play, Leah felt the very air enchanted. Each chord stuck cast a dark, devilish spell. Gloom enchanted melody flowed through the patrons, and she saw its affect. How could they just sit there? She considered the question, but saw the notes did inspire emotion. Like all great works, it lived in all that heard it.

"Come on," Tracy commanded, pulled her daughter, but kept her eyes away from Iggy.

She staggered forward, and the guitarist glanced at her. Leah blushed. "Maybe, he did sell his soul like Jimmy Johnson," she breathed, but the guitarist's otherworldly focus faltered at the name. She watched fingers move in smooth plucks. No way, it is him; he is a genius. No merchandise, but she made most of her clothes, but she wanted to help him, some show of appreciation. After a moment to fish out a five dollar bill, money from selling shirts, and darted up to an empty jar on the bar. She dropped it inside, before Tracy could stop her.

Iggy smiled, turned, "Does the lady have a request?"

"I," she blushed, "I don't know." Leah shook her head, and cursed herself. He thinks I'm a loser like everyone else. She plucked at the band shirt.

"Leave her alone," her mother stomped up to Leah, and pulled her away. He frowned, and Leah wondered if this is how it felt to die.

The Guitarist smiled at the band shirt. "I got one for you.

Iggy turned away, and again, the rapture of his art possessed him. Notes rose as unsteady spirits adorn with many sorrows. Leah's eyes widened, for it was a song of the band on her shirt. His haunted Blues cover spell bound the bar.

Tracy pulled her over to a table, where she could order dinner. Her daughter stared at the Guitarist, eyes wide. "Don't forget that we need to talk about the drugs in your backpack," she jerked Leah's arm.

"I wasn't smoking it," she turned back to her mother. I wish I would have just not stopped to talk to them. They are always trouble.

"Oh, yeah," she rolled her eyes, "one of the Duncannon girls put it in YOUR backpack!" Tracy laughed until a high snort pinched it off.

"It HAD to be one of them!" she huffed, and pale skin turned crimson. They stopped me to talk about buying a shirt, Leah thought. Those prissy brats would never sully themselves by talking to the daughter of Tracy Chaney!

"They're from good, upstanding families," she countered, piggy nose rose.

"Dad believed me," she sulked, and slouched in her chair.

"He left us," Tracy squealed.