"From my position I could have a good look at Creat who was simply drenched: His fur and his hair were a sticky mess, whenever he threw himself around sweat shot about and his eyes were nothing but slits anymore while his perspiration flowed all over his face. His teeth were gritted as if he was in pain, his features were contorted and he seemed to snarl, as if he was about to attack someone or simply anybody. The guitar was his weapon, the strings were his trigger. He held it like a machine gun, shooting the entire crowd in front of the stage, killing one of them with every chord, slaughtering dozens with a riff. He seemed to be controlled by fury and blind rage, as if the performance was too much for his small body and the only thing that kept him going was his own hatred which took him from one musical height to another."

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The cover illustration for my story "A beast called Rock", showing Creat, guitarist of the hardrock band Ribcage, a man torn between his love for music and his sexuality.