Last week, a guy in a Cambrian Grey Bentley pulled up right where I set up outside King’s Cross. He revved the engine. That Akrapovic exhaust rumbled so loud it drowned out my D chord progression. Same one I was playing when security tried to boot me and earned me the Busking Rebel tag. Security darted over, but the guy waved them off and tossed me a twenty. That twenty bought me three days of cold coffee and new guitar strings. It’s wild to think that exhaust alone probably costs more than every instrument I’ve ever owned put together.