Guitar hunting makes me hungry, so I made a pit stop at Jim's Fatboy in Marietta. I ordered a carotid clotting, double mayo, double onion. I would pay for that later. Some lanky guy, wearing the world's dirtiest ball cap, walked up to me and said "Thatcher Truck?" I said that it was. "You buy guitars?" he asked. I paused before replying. I was in a hurry and did not want to look at one more banged up, neck warped, knob missinged, Stratocaster inspired First Act guitar that some bozo bought back when he thought he would be the next Randy Rhoads. I couldn't say that I didn't buy guitars because the door on my truck announced that I did, indeed, buy guitars and announced it in 10 inch letters, no less. At the end of my mental debate I decided it best to not anger one of the locals, and a mean looking one at that, and said "What do you have?" I regretted it immediately.