The following story is one I recently dug up
out of my Dad's ''archives.'' I hope you enjoy it as
much as I enjoyed submitting it. 

           ''The Guitar Man'' 
                   By: 
        David ''Doc'' Byron 


    It was all he could do to bitch himself up. 
That's what he called it; ''Bitching himself up.'' 
In street lingo, it meant ''Preparing yourself
for the day at hand.''
And most of Jack Mason's days were the same old-
same old; waking up in a cockroach infested 
shithole sleeping room, wash up in a filthy 
sink, slap on some shoplifted, Dollar-General-
Store store after shave, then, after getting 
dressed up in his old, faded out Army issued 
fatigues, and worn out dress boots, he'd hit
the bricks, carrying his ancient, weatherbeaten 
box guitar with him, and walk down to the 
corner of Fifth and Main, to entertain the 
everyday - working class - passersby. 

   Most of them were friendly and considerate 
toward the less fortunate; the business suits
tossed five dollar bills into his old, worn
out guitar case, while the rich and famous 
only dropped hima fucking quarter.

   No matter, he always thought. 

You'll get payback in the end. 
Payback. 
What a glorious word. 
And payback is a BITCH. 

    He started off the morning with a rough but
endurable rendition of Bob Dylan's ''Blowin' In
The Wind,'' then followed it up with a less than 
savory version of James Taylor's '' Fire and Rain.'' 
Sipped his lukewarm coffee. 
Smoked a more stale ciggerate butt. 
Quarters fell, clinked on the sidewalk. 
Three or four dollar bills floated onto the dirty
sidewalk, like conffetti in a parade. 

His stomach cramped. 
His head reeled with silent but very vivid 
memories of life, and DEATH, in the BUSH. 
Charlie waitiing.....smelling BLOOD. 

   He kept on strumming his old guitar, staring 
at the passing crowd as if they were cattle, 
or lambs being led to the slaughter. 
It was then he knew it was time. 

   Time for his fifteen minutes of fame, his long 
denied moment of GLORY. 
He stopped the strumming of the worn out strings, 
then placed an old, dusty 8-track tape into an
old, dusty and portable 8-track player, and
turned up the volume. 
LOUD. 
   Then, with meticulous precision, he cradled his 
old box guitar under one arm, then began pulling
the homemade-rigged trigger at the base of the
guitar's neck, sending .45 caliber, hollow point
slugs into the oncoming crowd. 

   Throw me a lousy fucking QUARTER, when I've 
risked my LIFE to preserve your ASS, he thought,
with much deep rooted hatred. 
FUCK YOU.
   As the bodies dropped and the blood spilled in
gallons, sirens screamed in the distance. 
Jacky Boy smiled as he mowed down the masses in
a cloud of smoke and fire and lead, getting his
well deserved revenge. 

   The tape player, now spattered with blood,  
kept on playing Jak's life-long theme song: 
''Bye-bye, Miss AMERICAN PIE.......
.....this will be the day that I DIE.....''

   Then the guitar man took his final bow.