Joe Bob and the Technotronic Screamcoat

         “I could keep on going about the greats who wore this thing!” Stan Tan had been lauding the deeds of the jacket as if it was a historical figure. “Do you want it or not?” He now eyed his customer with lips curling in anticipation.

         Joe Bob was mesmerized by the list of guitar gods who had worn it, but his dream faltered as he looked upon the dusty, tattered garment. Elvis would have never worn it, fringeless and without glitter. Nor would any other have donned such hideous appearal, except maybe "Dimebag" Darrell and only as a stage prop. He was not convinced.

         “Yer pullin' the wool over my eyes! Nunna' them guys woulda' worn this crap! It's old, it's falling apart. No way in hell'd I wear this for my show at Whisky Jack's!” He turned to leave but Stan interrupted.

         “I'll tell you what, just try it on and see how you look in the mirror.” He pulled the jacket off of the wooden hanger, laid it across the counter and stepped back.

         The thing was in desperate need of cleaning; Joe Bob felt dirty just looking at it. He hesitated, looking into Stan's eyes only to receive a snarky smirk. “Fine, here goes nuthin'.” He held it up to examine its inferiority one last time. The sleeves were stiff as boards, the collar was brown from years of sweat. Mangy dog hair best described the once velvet lapels. Stains ran down the front of the jacket. The only valuable piece was the golden guitar pick attached where the manufacturer's label should be. As disgusting as it was, something inside compelled him to put it on anyway. One arm slid through, then the other and he turned toward the mirror.

         “What in blazes!” Joe Bob stood shocked by the reflection. What once was an unkempt musician in his day wear now had a slicked back mullet, lightning bolt-shaped sideburns and soul patch to match. The jacket felt like a custom-fit. Barely able to peel his eyes from the spectacle, Joe Bob glanced down at the jacket. The beggar's duster was now suitable for The King himself. It had transformed, alive with swirls of color that twisted and turned with movement.

         “How'd you do that!?” he blurted.

         “This is no regular jacket. It conforms to the soul of the bearer.” Stan leaned and whispered, “This is you at the best you can ever be!”

         “I dunno 'bout this, Stan.”

         “Try out a guitar, any one you'd like.” Joe Bob scanned the wall of used guitars. There among the cheap, scratched knockoffs, he saw what he was only hoping for: a polished black 1957 Gibson Les Paul Custom. Stan was already pulling it from the wall mount, certain that it was the one. Within seconds it was ready for action. “I hope you're prepared for this.”

         One breath was long enough as he grabbed the guitar into his own hands. Pulling the strap over his head and a pick from his pocket, he strummed an open chord. The jacket exhaled in response, then constricted around his body.

         “Holy tarnation!” Joe Bob screamed. Then his fingers gripped the guitar by some hidden command and began to play. With hips gyrating and feet twitching beneath him, he observed in disbelief. He had transformed into the unholy child of Hank Williams Jr. and James Brown. The music was like “Freebird” played too quickly. Terrified at first, he began to get a feel for the power that was flowing through his body. Finally, in a fiery climax, strumming wildly and jumping in the air, he landed, kneeling to catch his breath.

         “Bravo! You and that jacket are quite a pair!” Still laughing, he helped the exasperated musician up, taking the guitar and putting it into a case. “Now back to business, what do you say?” He waited with a stern look and a raised eyebrow, but not for long.

         “Yessiree!” He whipped out his wallet and began thumbing through his cash. “How much ya' want fer it?”

         “Woah there cowboy, your money is no use here.”

         Confused, Joe Bob glanced at Stan, then to a clipboard that he pulled from hiding. It held a tanned and stretched hide with a legal contract etched in dark ink. His heart sank as he understand his fate. All the guitar gods surely paid a price for their ability, fame and fortune, but how could it all come from this?

         “I just want your signature.” The cold face tightened into a hot grin, his face nearly bursting with blood. He pushed the contract toward Joe Bob and held forth a feathered pen.

         Hours seemed to drift by as he contemplated. Finally, in submission, he snatch the quill and scribbled his name.

         “Very good!” Stan cackled as he hid the contract again. “Now get out there and make me proud.”

         Joe Bob didn't know whether to be ecstatic or sullen. What was done was done, so he turned to walk away. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, Stan called once more. “Aren't you forgetting something?” He tilted his head toward the guitar in its case. Joe Bob said nothing, moving to grab the case. Just as his fingers touch the handle, the jacket gripped him once more, choking him. In agony he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. The room grew dark and Stan stood over him on the floor. “When I grant a gift, what do you say to your master?”

         In cowardice, he could only cough, “Thank you, Dark Lord!”

         “Good, now go out and set Whisky Jack's on fire!” He crowed once more as Joe Bob scrambled to his feet, wrapped his arms around the guitar case and darted out the door. Following close behind, Stan locked the door and watched as his customer hopped into a pick-up and screeched out of the driveway. Then he smiled and turned the Open sign around to Closed. “You'll be back. My jacket always returns.”