It’s not the idle hands that worry me.
Now, George was a good straight boy to begin with, but there was bad blood in him; someway he got into the magic bullets and that leads straight to Devil’s work, just like marihuana leads to heroin. (You think you can take them bullets or leave ’em, do you? Just save a few for your bad days—)
Well, now, we all have those bad days when you can’t shoot for shit.
The more of them magics you use, the more bad days you have without them, so it comes down finally to all your days being bad without the bullets. It’s magics or nothing. Time to stop chippying around and kidding yourself: Kid, you’re hooked, heavy as lead.
And that’s where old George found himself, out there at the crossroads, molding the Devil’s bullets. Now a man figures it’s his bullets, so it will hit what he wants to hit, but it don’t always work that way.
You see, some bullets is special for a single aim. A certain stag, or a certain person, and no matter where you are, that’s where the bullet will end up, and in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser’s wand and points where the bullet wants to go.
—profoundest apologies to Tom Waits and William Burroughs, of course.
Commenting is closed for this article.
