#boxmonkeymusic.com

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Box Monkey Bourbon. Served neat. Like revenge.

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🎸Devil’s Chord Model #001: “The Howler”

Body:

• Box: Weathered wooden cigar box with burned-in veve sigil on the front (Box Monkey’s symbol)

• Finish: Torch-scorched edges, matte black stain with blood-red undertones

• F-holes: Stylized lightning bolt or open mouth “howl” sound holes on either side

• Custom plate: Brass corner guards stamped with occult glyphs

Neck:

• Material: Aged maple with rosewood fretboard

• Frets: 22, medium jumbo, fret markers as bone inlays shaped like monkey skulls or crescent moons

• Scale: 25.5” for full bluesy range

• Nut: Bone or synthetic ivory

Headstock:

• Shape: Flared, asymmetrical (like a devil’s horn silhouette)

• Logo: “Devil’s Chord” hand-burned with red metallic foil backing

• Tuners: Sealed vintage-style tuners, black nickel or brass

Strings & Hardware:

• Strings: 4-string setup (Open G or D tuning standard)

• Bridge: Floating hardwood bridge

• Pickup: Optional piezo or single-coil magnetic pickup hidden under a brass cover etched with the words:

“Every Chord a Curse”

Back detail:

• Etched backplate with Box Monkey’s quote:

“A tune ain’t worth playin’ ‘less it might bring somethin’ back from the other side.”

[boxmonkeymusic]

And lo, the monkey of ash and burden stood defiant in the House of False Light.

The cathedral, vast as judgment and twice as cold, bore windows of saints with furred faces, glass eyes weeping blood and gold.

And behind the altar rose the Adversary — horned, winged, and throned in shadow — his limbs like oaths unbroken, his gaze like fire before time.

But the monkey played.

A song not taught but torn from the soul —

Each note a curse reversed, each chord a name remembered.

And the ghosts in the pews did stir,

those bound by silence and forgotten songs,

their mouths agape in longing,

their chains quivering at the sound.

From his shadow rose a second shape — twisted, horned, and trailing smoke —

his sin made flesh behind him,

a mirror of the price unpaid.

At his feet, the fire of sacrifice.

Within his case, the charms of the old ways: bone, string, blood, and veve.

The guitar — a box of devils and deliverance — glowed with holy rot.

And the Devil spake not.

For the song was not his.

It was the monkey’s.

And it was enough.

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The rain fell with a funereal cadence, as if the heavens themselves mourned some ancient, cursed truth. In that narrow alley of brick and shadow, he appeared—Box Monkey, clad in sable, the brim of his fedora low, a cheroot smoldering like the eye of a damned seraph.

No soul walked with him—only echoes, and the unrelenting dirge of the storm. He cradled a crude guitar, forged from the coffin of a nameless child, each string a whisper from beyond the veil.

As he played, the air grew still, as though nature herself dared not exhale. The melody? Neither of earth nor heaven, but some place in between—a place where sorrow had teeth and music was a blade.

He did not sing. The chords spoke for him. And in that desolate hush, the walls wept, the shadows leaned closer, and time forgot itself.

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Every note’s a sip. Every sip’s a story.