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The garage smelled like sweat, solder, and dust baked under the California sun. Lars sat behind the drum kit tapping his sticks against his thighs like a wind-up toy that had been set loose. James leaned against a beat-up amp, arms crossed, while Ron tuned his bass.
"Think he'll actually show?" Ron asked.
Lars shrugged. "He called. Said he was already halfway here."
"Most guys talk big," James muttered. "Let's see if he plays big."
Right on cue, the squeal of tires signaled someone's arrival. A junky silver car rolled up the driveway, one headlight out, the radio blaring something fast and British.
Out stepped Dave Mustaine.
He had wild, reddish-blond hair like a lion's mane, tight jeans, and a denim vest held together by patches and wear. A candy-apple red B.C. Rich was slung over his shoulder like he was born with it there.
He didn't say hi. He didn't shake hands.
He walked in, plugged straight into the amp, and ripped a lightning-fast scale so sharp it nearly sliced the air in half.
The three of them looked at each other.
"Well," Dave said, setting the guitar down casually, "am I gonna audition or what?"
James raised an eyebrow. "That was the audition."
Dave blinked. "Seriously?"
Lars grinned. "You've got the job."
Dave let out a short laugh. "Huh. That easy, huh?" He scratched his head. "Man, I thought you guys were gonna make me fight for it."
James shrugged. "You showed up and made our gear sound better than we ever have. That's enough."
Dave grinned wide. "Then screw it. Let's get some beer or something. We've got a band to build."
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The rest of the day was a blur.
They launched into Hit the Lights, and Dave followed James's rhythm without hesitation, his fingers flying like he'd already memorized the song in another life. He didn't just play lead — he took it over, bending notes with emotion and fury.
Ron was wide-eyed. Lars was grinning ear-to-ear, cymbals crashing like thunder.
James, watching it unfold, felt something tighten in his chest — part excitement, part wariness. Dave was good. Too good. He brought chaos with him, like a lightning strike: brilliant and dangerous.
They played No Remorse. They messed with a few of Dave's own riffs — one in particular, fast and twitchy, had the bones of what James knew would eventually become The Four Horsemen. Right now, Dave called it The Mechanix.
"You wrote that?" Lars asked after they stopped.
Dave nodded. "Yeah. One of my old ones. Needs cleaning up."
James gave a tight nod. "It's got something."
Dave grinned. "It'll melt faces if we play it right."
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Later that evening, the four of them sat on the cracked driveway, passing around a six-pack. The heat of the jam session was still radiating off their skin. They were quiet — for the first time all day — and it felt like the air itself was vibrating with what they'd started.
"This is gonna work," Lars said suddenly. "I can feel it."
Ron nodded. "We've got a real shot with this."
James didn't say anything at first. He just looked down at his hands — James's hands — callused and cut, already sore from hours of playing.
This was it. The lineup.
The one that would set the world on fire.
"I know a name," Lars said after a while. "Something I've been sitting on."
James glanced over.
Lars grinned.
"Metallica."
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