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The Homeache By Christopher Sloce He bought the bull for cheap given it suffered from everything that he suffered from: old age, destroyed back, neglectful peers, the emergence of younger talents with better color and stronger legs, those who wore horns and Stetsons better. It cost little and nobody questioned the King of the Rodeo, their infatuations carrying over, though it had been ten or so years since he held that crown. the King bought the bull and they loaded him into the carrier that The King had purchased. Up and down the highway, they watched the carrier and the jet black bull inside. Why must you live out the songs you wrote? his radio asked. Over and over, it said. He parked the pickup parallel to the sidewalk, taking up four or five spaces. He got out, his green rhinestone shirt shining in the sun, dazzling everybody’s eyes, murmurs drowned by slow wind. The King walked in and loped to the pharmacy section, out of the corner of his eye seeing himself move in the mirrors of the vegetable bins. Over the intercom, a check on milk. Music came back on, this time proclaiming Tonight’s going to be a good night. That tonight is going to be a good good night. The girl at the counter chewed her gum with a vacuous expression on her face. She drew circles on the counter with her fingers and when the King made his way there, she stopped suddenly and looked up, popping her gum loudly. “How can I help you?” “You know what I need,”the King said, drawing out the e’s. “I don’t know why that surprises me.” The girl got up and she went to the counter watching him to the best of her ability until she found the prescription with the name unused by the King and she handed it to him. The King still managed to survey the floor, ceiling and everything between. After she gave him the medicine, he smiled. “Bought a bull,” the King said. “Started getting lonely.” “Imagine that,” the girl said. “It’s nice to have somebody.” “Bull’s not a somebody,” She looked back down. The King 29
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