The stink of a fine guitar hunt is varied. It may be mothballs, a soothing cedar or maybe the brunky musk of ancient dust. We rolled up to a cinder block house being attacked on all sides by a landscape gone wild. The roof was missing shingles, the gutters were losing their battle with mean Mr. Gravity. This hunt's odor? I could smell mildew from 20' away with my windows rolled up. "What fun," I thought to myself. Dirty ballcap man was at the door fumbling with the lock. "Coming in?" "I'll wait here," I called. "I have allergies." I pointed to my nose, as if that was visual verification. "Bring the guitar out and we"ll look at it in good light." "Allrighty then," he nodded. He hustled through the door and when he reappeared he had a bundle under his arm. He looked like he had a hog trussed up in an old quilt and 70 yards of duct tape. He unceremoniously dumped the pig shaped parcel on the hood of my truck and began tearing tape. The tape was old and cheap and left great clots of itself all over the quilt. Old Dirtyhat was becoming quite sweaty by his efforts. Tape shards stuck to his fingers, the nose he picked with those fingers, and the crotch he scratched with those fingers. Finally, with the tape gone, he began to unwrap and unwrap and unwrap. The quilt was coated with odd rust colored stains. When the guitar came to light, it was worth the wait.