A Nashville Pawn Shop Owner Tries to Sell the Taxidermied Corpse of the Cocaine Bear to Waylon Jennings
Something perfect about the lack of subtlety, ain’t there? You know there’s a story, without one even being told. A beginning, middle, and end that bypass all logic and beeline straight for the bloodstream. Just think about what a showpiece this would make in your den, or in your front entry, with two of Willie Nelson’s old pigtails hanging from its ears. This is a beast haunted by nothing but pure neon want. He gorged himself to death; now, he gobbles attention. But you, you’re your own artifact. What are you haunted by? Your brow’s a beaded curtain, no hiding the ripped-open relics behind it. I’d even venture to say that you’re a man who’s cursed somebody, only to have that curse round back on you. Now you think you’re gonna end up forever caught in your own glassy-eyed pose, smelling like a goat and skulking pigeon-toed on all fours for all eternity. But listen: it don’t have to be that way. I’m Buddy Holly, pitching you a bass guitar and telling you you got two weeks to learn how to play it before we go back out on the goddamned road. And all you gotta do is reach out and grab that fucker by the neck.
John Waddy Bullion’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in BULL, HAD, the Texas Review, Hunger Mountain, and Vol 1. Brooklyn, among other fine places. He lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with his family. Visit him online at johnwaddybullion.com.
