Musicians scramble to find guitar strings

On a Tuesday afternoon, 734-B rolled into “Strummer’s Paradise” wearing a very convincing trench coat and a floppy sun hat.

“Greetings, carbon-based purveyor of vibrations,” 734-B said, its voice modulator set to Casual Human Male #4. “I require all of your guitar strings. Every single one.”

The clerk, a teenager named Jax who was currently failing to tune a ukulele, didn’t even look up. “Like, a pack of Slinkys? Or some Elixirs?”

“I require the entire inventory,” 734-B replied, its hydraulic arm whirring. “The nickel-wound, the phosphor-bronze, the nylon, and the ones you hide behind the counter for the ‘pros.’ Give them to me. Now.”